


we might not be here (for much longer)

by schism



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Arkham Asylum, Dreams, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, identities are tricky too, memories are tricky, splits from show canon somewhere at the beginning of s2, to be fair so is rebuilding a criminal empire but hey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-11-20 17:04:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 59,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11339694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schism/pseuds/schism
Summary: Ed wasn't at the right place at the right time. Things spiral from there.(The first chapter has been partially rewritten.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i've been working on this little project on and off for a few months now and i finally managed to pull myself together and edit enough of it to get a chapter out. i'm excited to see where this goes.
> 
> title is from "f.r.i.e.n.d.s." by keaton henson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit note 29/09/2017: parts of this chapter have been rewritten.

_[…] while character makes men what they are, it's their actions and experiences that make them happy or the opposite._

– Aristotle, _Poetics_

 

_The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven._

– John Milton, _Paradise Lost_

 

 

_*****_

 

_He’s floating._

_Or, more accurately, it feels like he’s floating._

_He isn’t doing much of anything – or feeling much of anything, for that matter._

_It’s a curious sensation, this disembodied existence._

_He thinks maybe there was something before this –_ might _have been something before this – but there’s no way to be sure._

_Time doesn’t seem to exist._

_Nothing does._

_He screams, or at least he thinks he screams, the taste of rust on his lips._

_He’s floating, floating, floating, all alone in the cloudy nothingness._

 

***

 

Despite all evidence pointing towards the opposite, Arkham Asylum can be a quiet place. In the dead of night, between the witching hours of three and five, when the cloudy haze that covers Gotham City like a blanket finds itself hiding starry skies and a silver moon, the halls of the historic building are calm. For the most part, at least. Because in a city that never rests, never relents, there cannot exist absolute silence, because the city cannot tolerate empty air. And Arkham is nothing if not an extension of the city, a sickly limb stretched out in a futile cry for help.

Arkham Asylum is where they stick the worst of the worst – and the ones they don’t want to think about. Sometimes those two categories barely touch, sometimes they overlap: the point of convergence being within the recently re-opened wing of the building, housing the criminally insane. Or, more specifically, within the newest inmate of said wing, bearing the designation D-171.

He’s not responsible for the night’s disturbance, however, even if the night nurse keeps glaring through the window at him whenever she passes his cell on her rounds, accompanied by a ragged security guard who seems as if he’s going to fall asleep on his feet.

No, inmate D-171 – otherwise known as Ed Nygma – is the gold standard of obedience, compared to his cellmate.

The man is short, with spiky black hair, oddly reminiscent of a bird. And, most unusually of all, he is not wearing the customary striped jumpsuit of the inmates but a tattered black suit, stained in glossy patches with what looks like oil in the dim light. Odd enough, but accompanied by him banging on the door and demanding to be let out, the whole picture is downright peculiar. And for the past three hours, Ed has done a decent job at ignoring the shouts of the angry little man, but even he has his limits.

Which is why, at quarter past one in the morning, he finally snaps.

“They didn’t tell me I’d have a cellmate. And certainly not one this loud,” he mumbles from where he’s seated on the floor, rolling his eyes. He tries not to think too much about _where_ he’s sitting, deciding in favor of willful ignorance instead of wondering which bodily fluids might’ve been spilled there once upon a time: the most likely case being all of them.

The smaller man turns to face him. “What?” he asks, as if noticing his cellmate for the first time even though they’ve both been there for hours.

“Can you _please_ be quiet,” Ed groans, irritation dripping off every word. “As if they’re not hearing the same shtick from everyone in this miserable place.”

The man stares at him, silent for the first time in two hours.

The quiet is blissful at first, but eventually becomes uncomfortable, as all long silences are wont to become.

“What?” Ed snaps once the weight of the other man’s scrutiny becomes unbearable.

The man shakes his head, as if in disbelief. “You can… you can hear me?”

Ed laughs, briefly, the short sound reverberating and amplifying itself until the room fills with its echo. “I’m pretty sure the whole asylum can hear you, what with the shouting and banging on the door.”

“I just… I’ve been here for days – at least I think so, it’s hard to tell if they don’t let you out – and no one has responded to me. At least no one before you,” the man says, awkwardly leaning against the wall, finally taking a break from his fruitless endeavor.

“Have they fed you?” Ed asks, a tinge of fear running through his veins. He’s heard all about Arkham and how the conditions within barely qualify as habitable – the fact that there’s only one bed in a cell confining two people comes to mind – which he can handle easily, he’s lived in far worse places than this, but what he – or anyone, really – can’t handle is being starved.

And if they’re not feeding the inmates…

The other man shakes his head, irritated. “I already told you. No one has responded to me. It’s as if I don’t even exist.”

A pause. Then, “There’s only one bed in the cell, which you’ve probably noticed by now. They wouldn’t have put you in here too if they knew I was here – there’s a level of competence that even madhouse employees are required to have.”

Inmate D-171 doesn’t know what to think.

“Well, if I can see y–” Ed hesitates, finally getting a good look at the other man’s face when he turns towards the window, sparse light from the outside pouring over his familiar features.

Is it…?

“Wait, I know you! You’re… you’re the Penguin! Mr. Cobblepot, right?” Ed says, even though he’s completely certain that’s who it is – Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot, in the flesh, right in front of him. Now that he thinks about it, the voice should’ve been a dead giveaway.

“I had no idea you were in here! Everyone thinks you just vanished into thin air. They’ve been looking for you for weeks,” he continues, watching as a small crease forms between the other man’s brows. “Mayor Galavan has made locating you a priority, although _why_ exactly, I haven’t managed to figure out.”

The man – Mr. Cobblepot – blinks, processing the rapid flow of information coming his way. “That’s… yes, that’s who I am,” he says, sounding hesitant. “And Galavan is… he’s the mayor?”

Ed nods. “He won the election by a landslide. Weeks ago, now.”

Mr. Cobblepot looks like he’s going to be sick.

“Are you okay?” Ed asks, briefly considering getting up and out of the way, just in case. But he’s tired – tired enough that moving seems like too much effort.

“I’m fine. You said… it’s been weeks?” Mr. Cobblepot says, pinching the bridge of his sharp, almost beak-like nose.

 _He does look like a bird, just like they say_ , Ed thinks absently. He hadn’t really noticed it during their brief first meeting down at the police station, but as the minutes pass it’s more and more apparent how accurate the Penguin’s nickname truly is, especially with his signature lurching gait.

“ _Weeks_ since the election or since your disappearance? ‘Yes’ is the answer to both, although the number of weeks differs, as far as I could tell,” Ed replies after a moment of silence. “I didn’t have time to look into it, what with my own arrest and all to deal with. They really weren’t happy with me down at the good old PD of GC.”

Mr. Cobblepot looks up, considering his cellmate properly before narrowing his eyes. “You look familiar. Have we met before?”

Ed grins. “Bingo. I used to work for the police.”

“You’re the… you’re the… the guy that asked me that riddle,” Mr. Cobblepot says.

Ed feels his heart begin to flutter at the thought of being recognized by someone so influential, so _brilliant_ , willfully ignoring the hesitance with which said sentence is delivered.

“I didn’t think you’d remember,” he says brightly.

“Your name was… What was it again? My memory is playing tricks on me these days,” Mr. Cobblepot says, a hint of something akin to an apology in his voice.

At least, Ed chooses to take it as such.

“My name is Edward Nygma.” He smiles before leaning forward and adding a quick, “but please, call me Ed.”

Mr. Cobblepot is about to say something when a passing security guard gives the door a whack and tells Ed that if he doesn’t stop blabbering, she’ll have him restrained and sedated faster than he can say the words.

Ed shuts his mouth and zips it, mimicking throwing something over his shoulder, ignoring the flash of rage deep beneath his ribs.

“Hey!” Mr. Cobblepot says loudly, waving at the security guard. “Right here!”

The security guard squints at Ed and, curiously, pays no attention to Mr. Cobblepot, who’s staring at her with such intensity that she should be able to feel it. There is no way she couldn’t have heard him speak.

Unless…

“I don’t think she can see me,” Mr. Cobblepot tells Ed, still looking at the security guard. “Either that or she’s an excellent actress. But I very much doubt _that_ , considering this is where she works.”

Ed glances over and rubs thumb over his mouth.

Mr. Cobblepot rolls his eyes.

The security guard frowns, looking at Ed pensively for a moment, but, satisfied at being obeyed for once and silence being restored, leaves without any further comment.

 

***

 

_He isn’t alone anymore._

_He has a name, a semblance of identity, a past._

_A present._

_Perhaps even a future._

_A young man with keen eyes and a spitfire mind is here, is with him, and it feels like a missing piece of the puzzle has been slotted into place, like all of this might finally start to make sense; it’s electric, exciting, energizing._

_This was meant to be._

_However, there is also a sense of wrong about it, as if this isn’t the place nor the time they were supposed to meet._

_But he will take what he can get. A tendril of hope manages to break through the gray fog he finds himself in once dawn breaks over the asylum._

_He’s not completely sure who he is, yet, or who he used to be._

_But he feels himself remembering, growing stronger by the minute spent in the company of this presence, all spindly limbs and potential energy._

_He isn’t alone anymore._

 

***

 

In the morning light, the events of the day and night before seem more like a dream than a memory.

Ed opens his eyes to see the gray wall of the cell and for a moment, he doesn’t recognize where he is or why he’s there.

Then, he remembers.

He can’t bring himself to believe this is where he’s ended up, after everything. In a way, he supposes he was his own undoing, letting himself become paranoid enough to get caught, but the thrill of the game he’d played is slowly starting to overshadow the memory of disappointment at being apprehended.

He’ll be smarter next time.

And there will undoubtedly be a next time, even if the circumstances differ. He’s already lost the love of his life – the likelihood of going through something like that again is paper thin at best, partly thanks to his realization that if he’s to become who he’s so clearly meant to be, there can be no space in his life for love.

Because if the love of his life couldn’t accept him, who could? 

Ed rolls over to get out of bed – they’d agreed he should take it, considering Mr. Cobblepot hadn’t wanted to sleep while Ed sorely needed to – and is met with silence and an empty room.

Mr. Cobblepot is gone already, then.

But gone where?

He would’ve heard the cell door opening – the grotesque metal contraption weighs at least a hundred pounds and crudely scrapes the floor when opened, which he’d noticed while being escorted to his cell the previous night – which means Mr. Cobblepot couldn’t have exited through there.

And there’s nowhere else to go, nowhere to hide in the small cell.

And yet, Mr. Cobblepot is gone, seemingly vanished into thin air.

Maybe the psychiatrists at Ed’s trial were right.

Maybe he _is_ insane.

But… he doesn’t _feel_ insane, is the thing. And his recollection of their conversation the night before is crystal clear – undoubtedly, there was someone in his cell last night, that someone was Oswald Cobblepot, and he’s gone now.

Ed muses over it until an orderly comes by to unlock the cell door and escort him to the mess hall. He asks whether she knows where they relocated his cellmate, and she stares at him in confusion.

“What the hell are you talking about, inmate…” she glances at the tag on his chest, “D-171?”

“The Penguin? Mr. Cobblepot? He was in here with me last night,” Ed says, raising his brows. Internal communications can’t be _this_ bad in here, can they? Surely, they keep track of their patients?

The orderly stares at him again. When he doesn’t say anything else, she frowns and mutters something under her breath that Ed doesn’t catch, which is probably for the best, before leading him through the maze-like corridors of the complex to start the day.

 

***

 

_The other man leaves – is taken away – for the day and the emptiness is back._

_Vaguely, he is aware of energy surges within the asylum._

_And, curiously, under it._

_There’s something there, something charged with power and for the first time in weeks, he feels something._

_Hunger._

 

***

 

Ed isn’t allowed back into his cell before evening has draped itself over the city.

He’d asked around about Mr. Cobblepot and had been met with the same confused stares from everyone, with no one seemingly willing to – or capable of – providing an answer. He’d been told he didn’t have a cellmate; that if he liked, one could be appointed to him, an offer which he’d declined.

After the third time getting the same useless answers, he’d figured it would be easier to drop the subject.

Still, the thought keeps nagging at him.

When the orderly finally opens the door, Mr. Cobblepot is back, leaning against the wall opposite the bed just like he’d done the previous night.

Ed looks pointedly to the blank-faced woman. “There,” he says, gesturing towards the man.

“What are you talking about,” the orderly says flatly.

“Mr. Cobblepot. He’s right there,” Ed replies sharply, his frustration beginning to build itself into a headache. “I can see him, clear as day. Didn’t you take him elsewhere?”

The man in question stares at the orderly, unblinking, and coughs pointedly. The sound is loud inside the small room, amplified by the metal reinforcements within the walls.

“There’s no one there, inmate,” the orderly says, giving no indication of having heard anything, and pushes Ed through the door, closing and locking it in a swift, practiced motion after him. “Calm yourself down or I’ll have to get the nurse.”

Ed nods, demure as can be, and waits until the echo of the orderly’s footsteps has faded away. Once he’s sure she’s gone, he groans as he flops down onto the bed. “And that’s my day for you. I asked around about you and everyone looked at me like I was insane before telling me I didn’t have a cellmate. At this point, I think I’m starting to believe them.”

Mr. Cobblepot leans back against the wall and cocks his head, looking at him.

“You asked them about me?” he says after a while, voice quiet.

“Of course,” Ed says, raising his head to narrow his eyes at the other. “Was I not supposed to?”

“No, no, not that. It’s just…” Mr. Cobblepot pauses, thinking. “It confirms what I’ve been considering as a real possibility for some time.”

“Which is what?” Ed asks, intrigued.

Even an implausible explanation is better than none.

“I’m dead,” Mr. Cobblepot says, almost nonchalant if it weren’t for the slight cracking in his voice.

Ed sits up. “What do you mean?”

“It’s just a feeling. My memories are foggy, I don’t want to eat or sleep and I haven’t done so in a while. Look at the state of my clothes. And no matter how much I have yelled or howled, no one has heard me,” Mr. Cobblepot says, defeated. “Or they have, but no one has responded.”

Ed bites down the impulse to say _no one besides me_.

“Which is why I’m most likely dead, and if that is indeed the case, then I don’t know why I’m still here,” Mr. Cobblepot continues, picking lint out of the lapels of his ruined suit as if it made any difference. “If _this_ is the afterlife, I’d rather not have one.”

“Well, what’s the last thing you remember?” Ed asks.

“I…” Mr. Cobblepot starts, then pauses. “I’m not sure, there was a–”

The pause is excruciating.

Ed watches as the other goes through a series of facial expressions before finally blurting out “oh god, my poor mother…“ as he crumbles completely, burying his face in his hands, any semblance of authority gone from his frame in an instant.

Ed pushes down the urge to reach out.

As if _that_ would help.

He’s just a stranger.

What comfort could he offer?

“What about your mother?” he asks instead, as gently as he’s capable of – which isn’t all that much, really, but he hopes Mr. Cobblepot can appreciate the effort.

The man in question lifts his head and stares at him, pain and rage clouding his gaze.

“She’s dead,” he says after a minute, the fight that was briefly there gone again once the words leave his mouth. “They killed her right in front of me. Theo Galavan and his sister.”

Rationally, Ed understands that for most people, witnessing the murder of their parent would be devastating. He can’t say he shares the sentiment.

“Maybe it’s better this way,” he offers, quietly, an idea starting to take shape in his mind. Perhaps there is a way Ed _can_ help, after all. If Mr. Cobblepot listens to what he says, that is.

The man in question stares at him some more, eyes flashing with barely contained fury threatening to spill out.

The metal bars on the window tremble.

It’s terrifying.

And absolutely fascinating.

“What did you say?” Mr. Cobblepot asks, voice deceptively pleasant and steady even if his hands are shaking – and if Ed was a lesser being, he’d be trembling with fear at the other’s feet, begging for mercy.

But he is certain of himself, at least in this.

“Perhaps it _is_ better this way. I too loved someone once. She was my girlfriend, see? But I killed her. Completely accidentally, of course,” he adds quickly before Mr. Cobblepot can say anything – he looks as if he’s about to come out with something snide and Ed does not want to hear it right now, “but unfortunately there was nothing I could do after the fact.

“And it took some time, but eventually I realized the truth: for some people, love can be a source of strength. But for me, and I think for you as well, it has always been and will always be our most crippling weakness.”

Mr. Cobblepot laughs, the emotionless sound echoing off the walls of the small cell.

“I think you find yourself mistaken in this, _friend_ ,” he says, his tone venomous. “My mother was a pillar of strength and courage for me, the only person who truly cared about me and believed in me, and now she’s gone. For good. I wouldn’t call _this_ a beneficial state of things.”

“We’re not so different, you and I,” Ed says brightly, and Mr. Cobblepot looks at him as if he’s tempted to strangle him right there and then, the only thing stopping him the very likely possibility that he can’t touch Ed.

He needs to understand, to see what Ed is trying to tell him.

If _only_ he would listen.

“I fail to see how you’ve reached that conclusion,” Mr. Cobblepot says eventually, scrunching up his nose and lifting his chin defiantly, as if reassuring himself he could have nothing in common with someone like Ed.

Which, honestly, would be hurtful in any other situation. But Ed understands hurt feelings well enough to not take it too personally, opting to try and provide some solace instead of barking back something equally flippant.

It’s not exactly a selfless action, but neither a selfish one.

“As I told you, I killed the only woman I’ve ever loved with my own bare hands and I don’t even remember doing it. And I felt horrible afterwards, but eventually I understood,” Ed pauses, partly for dramatic effect, partly because he has to try and contain his excitement.

“I’d been set free. See, _nothing_ can hurt me now. No one can force my hand, or threaten me, or demand anything from me. Because there is no leverage for anyone to hold over me. And that, I think, is the perhaps the greatest strength of them all.”

Mr. Cobblepot looks pensive.

“So, what you’re saying is… my situation is similar to yours?” he says, his brow furrowed.

Ed nods, a small, hopeful smile tugging the corners of his mouth upward. “Absolutely. That’s what I meant, because you see, Mr. Cobblepot, when they took your mother from you, they took away the one thing that made you weak. Because you loved her, you would’ve done anything for her. I can’t help but think that’s why you died, if you are indeed dead as you say.”

Mr. Cobblepot balks. “I don’t know how I died – or _if_ I am, in fact, dead.”

“Well, there’s a simple way to find out,” Ed says with a shrug before glancing out the window – it’s getting dark enough outside that there’s perhaps fifteen minutes or so left before lights-out.

“Do feel free to enlighten me, then,” Mr. Cobblepot says.

“Touch me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Touch me. Shake my hand, try to hit me, high-five me, whatever you like. If you’re a ghost, chances are you won’t be able to make an impact, considering you wouldn’t have physical mass. That is, if you truly are residual energy that has been misplaced, somehow. You shouldn’t be able to make physical contact, if that is indeed the case.”

“Fair enough,” Mr. Cobblepot says after a moment of deliberation, and reaches out a hand.

Ed reaches out his own.

As he’d predicted, their fingers pass right through each other.

There’s an interesting tingling sensation at the points of contact.

“Fascinating,” Ed says under his breath, wondering if Mr. Cobblepot can sense it, too.

 

***

 

_The other man talks a lot, far more and far faster than anyone he’s ever met before._

_He loves wordplay, too, loves puns and puzzles and riddles and silly little rhymes._

_If he could feel anything, it might be endearing to him. Or perhaps annoying._

_Or, possibly, both._

_On top of the list of the words he’d use to describe himself with, “patient” has never been at the top, but– maybe he could be._

_At the very least, he’s willing to try._

_So, he sits and he listens to the other excitedly blurt out quite possibly every thought he’s ever had, and finds he doesn’t mind listening._

_It’s almost like friendship, something he thinks he’s never experienced before – and something he never will, considering his corpse is most likely lying in a ditch somewhere, undignified and forgotten._

_So much for all his aspirations and ambitions._

_More than anything, he wants to be able to leave this place, and to ignore the brief warmth he felt when their fingers touched._

_He’s succeeding in neither._

 

***

 

The next day passes in much the same fashion as the last.

There’s hardly any point in asking further questions from the staff, though – if no one told Ed anything before, there’s no reason to keep pressing and make himself look more insane than he already seems to them.

He’d like to remain as un-medicated as possible, after all.

They do, however, give him two new pills after lunch: anti-psychotics, he presumes. He briefly wonders if they’ll have any effect on his perception of Mr. Cobblepot before deciding it would be unlikely – unless Mr. Cobblepot is a hallucination, but something deep within tells Ed he isn’t.

Once he is escorted back to his cell, Ed offers a minute nod in lieu of a greeting to Mr. Cobblepot, who is standing by the window this time, looking out into the courtyard.

Neither speaks until the orderly has left, his footsteps echoing in the hallway before fading away completely.

Mr. Cobblepot speaks first. “How was your day?” he asks Ed, turning around and looking at him as if genuinely interested in his answer.

It’s an odd sensation, but decidedly a pleasant one.

“It was… it was okay,” Ed says once he remembers he should reply. “They gave me some new meds. Anti-psychotics, I’m guessing. What about you, Mr. Cobblepot?”

“You may call me Oswald – I think we’ve reached that point in our acquaintance. But to answer your question – I suppose I’m somewhere in-between during the day, neither here nor there. There seems to be a gray haze over everything.”

Ed thinks for a moment.

“I wonder…” he muses, but thinks better of it.

It’s a thin chance, but perhaps…

“What?” Mr. Cobblepot – _Oswald_ – asks, leaning against the windowsill. He doesn’t seem to like sitting down and Ed wonders if it’s because he still feels pain in his injured leg, or if he just thinks he does. Can ghosts feel pain?

He suppresses a chuckle as the answer comes to him – only phantom pain.

Ed shakes his head.

Right.

Back to the matter at hand.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking this, but… did anything _change_ once I got here?”

Oswald purses his lips. “I’m not sure. I suppose things got a little bit clearer. Why?”

“It’s a silly idea but… I wonder if my presence is somehow affecting your energy,” Ed says after a moment. “Stabilizing it, somehow. Perhaps that’s why they were finally able to hear you from a distance, even if they couldn’t see or hear you up close.”

Oswald takes a moment to ponder over it. After a while, he nods.

Ed beams.

“I can’t – I _won’t_ – stay here forever, though,” Oswald says after a moment of silence. “I refuse to spend eternity locked in a six-by-ten cell.”

“I have no intention of staying in here any longer than I can help, either,” Ed replies. “Which is why I’m going to suggest a plan.”

Oswald waves his hand, much like a king at an audience.

Ed smiles. “We help each other get out.”

 

***

 

_He’s been alone for what feels like an eternity._

_Not only in the physical sense, either – both mentally and emotionally, as well. He’s never had friends, he knows this for certain now, has never had anyone on his side who was there by choice and not circumstance, never had anyone who looked at him the way this man does._

_The little he can recall of his life before all of this is hardly anything other than blood and pain and fear and anger, his whole life amounting to a self-righteous bid to make the world see him for who he saw himself as._

_He was the king of Gotham for a few glorious minutes and all he got for it was a bullet to the chest and his mother dying in his arms._

_Ultimately, he was a failure._

_It’s foolish to think anything could be changed now, that he could bounce back from death itself, but there’s a spark of hope in the other man’s eyes and he can’t bring himself to snuff it out, no matter how much he might find himself wanting to._

_Success could mean freedom for both._

_But there is no victorious homecoming for him._

 

***

 

The plan, as it currently stands, is simple.

First, they will figure out why Oswald remains where he should not. Then, they will figure out how to undo whatever it is that binds him there. And lastly, Ed will figure out his own way out of the asylum, with or without Oswald’s help, depending on whether he remains after they fix the issue of him being stuck.

Getting himself out will be simple enough – he noticed the ridiculously outdated ventilation system of the asylum a long time ago, and it would serve well as an escape route. So, Ed doesn’t worry about that.

What he _does_ worry about are the first two steps.

He has no prior experience dealing with a haunting; for heaven’s sake, he didn’t even _believe_ in ghosts a week ago. And now he shares a cell with one in a lunatic asylum.

“How _did_ you end up here?” Oswald asks him the next evening, once they’ve exchanged the usual pleasantries.

“Well… Remember I told you I’d killed my girlfriend?” Ed says slowly.

Oswald nods.

“She wasn’t the only person I killed,” Ed continues.

Oswald looks curious. “How many?”

“Three. Two of them I didn’t really care for but… three in total,” Ed says, a secret he’s never told anyone else. “Only went on trial for two of them, though. Miss Kringle and some random man who happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time when I was getting rid of the evidence, so to speak.”

Luckily, they hadn’t managed to pin Dougherty’s disappearance on him, even though a select few of the detectives he’d worked with had voiced their suspicions while he was in lockup.

Kind of a shame, really – he might have been tried as a serial killer, if they’d succeeded. Might’ve made his trial a bit more interesting, possibly even changed the verdict. Although, being legally insane was beneficial in the sense that he didn’t have to go to prison, even if Arkham was hardly any better.

Still, it’s the lesser of two evils, at least for now.

Oswald nods and they sit in silence, watching as daylight disappears and the artificial lighting in the asylum courtyard is turned on. Its soft, orange-tinged glow soothes the harsh whiteness of the fluorescent light inside their cell, making it almost cozy.

The fact the lights and the electrical system they require is functional in the shell of a building that Arkham is continues to both surprise and astonish Ed, especially considering how long the complex had stood empty.

“How many for you?” Ed asks eventually.

Oswald looks startled, yanked out of his thoughts by the sound of Ed’s voice.

“A lot more than three, but I don’t know the exact number,” he replies after a while. It doesn’t seem to bother him in the least that he doesn’t know, that he hasn’t kept count; it’s both intriguing and jarring, in a way, the nonchalance with which he gives his answer – whether said nonchalance comes from nature or nurture, Ed doesn’t know.

“I’m guessing most of them weren’t personal?” he says instead of voicing his thoughts.

Oswald shrugs. “Work mixed with personal, I suppose. Some because they were in my way, some because I wanted something that was theirs, others because they’d offended me.”

Absolutely fascinating.

“Did it get any easier after a while?” Ed asks, even though he’s pretty sure he can guess the answer. But he wants to hear it from Oswald.

The man in question shrugs again. “Ever since I was young, I knew who I wanted to be in this city. And I always knew it wouldn’t be neither easy nor clean getting there. So, I suppose killing has never been difficult for me, knowing that it serves a purpose, whatever that may be. Death usually does.”

He speaks casually, a kind of self-assurance in his tone that Ed instinctively envies. There could be so much to learn from this man… if said man wasn’t dead and confined to a cell in a madhouse.

What a shame.

The indoor lights are turned off and an orderly makes the first rounds of the night, checking on the inmates.

Ed waits until they’ve passed before speaking.

“I wish there was a way you could show me the finer intricacies. Mine were so… messy, spur-of-the-moment, no elegance in them whatsoever. Sometimes they’d bring in one of yours while I was still working at the precinct – at least I assumed they were yours. No evidence to back it up, of course, but there was always something about them, something _different_ ,” he says quickly, the words pouring out before he can stop himself. “A sense of personal touch, if you will. I envied that. Still do, if I’m honest.”

Ed knows he’s going to start rambling if Oswald doesn’t say anything soon – but the other doesn’t look angry or frustrated. If anything, he looks as if he’s seeing Ed for the first time.

“You are just full of surprises, Edward Nygma,” Oswald says, cocking his head.

A small burst of warmth blooms beneath Ed’s ribcage.

 

***

 

_Surprisingly enough, being stuck doesn’t bother him as much as it used to._

_Sure, he’d rather he was free to roam as he pleased, but…_

_The company isn’t too bad, after all._

_Of course, said thought comes with many regrets – if only he were alive, if only this brilliant, calculative man had shown up, shown himself, just a little while earlier, things might’ve been different._

_But there’s nothing to be done with what-if’s._

_He floats along in the darkness, the action – or, more accurately, the lack of one – almost routine by now._

_For the first time since what feels like forever, he dreams._

 

***

 

Ed is settling in nicely, the doctors tell him sometime during the second week of his stay. He’s getting along with the other inmates better than expected and, perhaps best of all in their book, not causing any trouble.

Ed nods and smiles as they say these things with clinical detachment and doesn’t reply that he’s doing so out of necessity, because he wants to leave this place as soon as possible, to forget the filthy halls and the clammy rooms with moisture and mold battling for dominance in the corners.

In any other city, the building would be condemned, deemed unfit for habitation.

In Gotham, they use it as an asylum.

And being on good terms with others confined within is something Ed can use to his advantage, partly because it alleviates the endless boredom of imprisonment, partly because he can use them to do his bidding, once he’s figured out how they tick. Helzinger is the simplest of them all, and neither Norton nor Sharon prove to be any more of a challenge.

This place is just a puzzle to be figured out and he’s dying to solve it.

He’s been here only for a week, but it’s easy to tell _something_ is going on, something that doesn’t seem right. People get taken to therapy and come out different, suspiciously so. Calm, for one, almost passive. And given that quite a few of them were more of the dangerous and unstable variety, people he’d mostly steered clear of if they didn’t do anything to concern him, it’s curious indeed.

Completely by accident, he overhears Strange and Peabody discussing something very odd indeed while he’s trying to keep one of his new “friends” from stabbing him in the arm with a crayon for what feels like the hundredth time. Ed is going to have to have words with him again soon, it seems – his patience is wearing thin enough.

The duo pass by the playroom quickly, the soft murmur of their conversation barely audible. Ed doesn’t look up from the newspaper he’s pretending to read, listening as intently as he can, strategically positioned so he can see the people passing by the fence separating the inmates from the staff.

“…highly unstable,” Peabody says, looking at her clipboard. “The results haven’t been promising, I’m afraid.”

“I’d rather not test 113 before we’re certain the method works,” Strange replies. “Especially since our most useful subject appears to have been… misplaced.”

Ed doesn’t hear anything else, just sees Peabody nod as they disappear down the hallway.

Fascinating.

As much as he rationally knows that he should focus on the inmates around him while he’s in their midst, the nagging feeling doesn’t lift. Strange and Peabody are hiding something – something big, by the sound of it, something valuable.

And Ed intends to find out what it is.

 

***

 

_He dreams of strange things, a mixture of memory and fantasy, it seems._

_He’s in the warehouse and his mother is dead in his arms._

_He’s standing up, his teeth bared._

_There’s a sharp pain just under his left collarbone._

_He’s running._

_He’s running._

_He’s running._

_A flash of bright light._

_Then, a forest, an abandoned trailer overgrown with ivy._

_His head spins as he breaks in, his blood soaking into his suit._

_There’s no time._

_He collapses on the floor._

_A part of him whispers to get up, to try and stop the bleeding._

_He remains where he is._

_He closes his eyes, just for a moment of rest._

_He will get up._

_He knows he must, knows there is a sequence of events that need to play out, that this can’t be his end._

_He’s…_

_just…_

_so…_

_tired…_

 

***

 

Ed is brought back to his cell about an hour before sundown – disappointingly, Oswald isn’t there.

Once the orderly is out of earshot, Ed tentatively calls out for him.

There’s no reply.

And since there isn’t anything else Ed can do except wait, it’s exactly what he does.

An hour passes.

The lights outside the asylum are turned on.

Another hour.

The light inside the cell is turned off.

An orderly makes the nightly rounds with a security guard in tow.

Ed remains alone.

Eventually he drifts off, exhaustion finally catching up with him.

For the first time in a month, he dreams.

_He’s back in the forest with the remains of Miss Kringle. The scene plays out like he remembers it, setting out the picnic, digging the makeshift grave, the nosy man coming to snoop, Ed killing him for his trouble, breaking his shovel, going back to his car._

_He gets the handsaw, comes back and sees the picnic is ruined – conflicting the sense of déjà vu._

_At least he thinks it is._

_A small trail of blood and disturbed foliage marks the route of the intruder._

_He follows it._

_Time passes; suddenly it’s dark and in front of him is a small mobile home being reclaimed by nature._

_Light spills from within._

_Ed makes to approach, loosely gripping the handsaw._

_The door bursts open and a small, hunched figure falls out, landing on his knees._

_Ed stumbles and falls back._

_The figure – a small man – looks up._

Mr. Penguin? _Ed says, his voice distorting itself into something almost unfamiliar to him._

_The scene changes._

_He’s at home, setting a glass of water on a tray. On a whim, he adds a blue and white straw into the glass._

_Mr. Penguin is waking up._

_Ed tries to offer him the water._

_There’s a conversation – or maybe there are several. The words blend into each other until nothing remains but the emotion they invoke; Ed is excited, giddy, even._

_An opportunity of a lifetime._

_If only the other would see it._

_The scene changes._

_He’s in Arkham now, in the visitation room he’s never gotten to see – or maybe he has. Hasn’t he?_

_Mr. Penguin – well, Oswald, as he keeps insisting – is seated across from him, a small gift-wrapped box set on the table in front of him. A soft light is emanating from him, a shred of warmth in the chilly gloom of the asylum._

_Ed opens the gift._

_It’s a puzzle box._

_He solves it in twenty seconds, Oswald’s words buzzing in the air around them._

_There’s a heart in the box, pulsing and bloody._

_Oswald smiles._

_The scene changes._

_They’re in a dimly lit parlor, the windows covered by heavy curtains, the lit fireplace giving off little light and less heat._

_Oswald is looking at the fire and talking, his words incomprehensible, glancing at him every now and then with affection in his eyes._

_Ed watches him, feels his mouth curve into a soft smile even though he doesn’t understand what the other is saying._

_It feels like home._

_The scene changes._

_He’s standing in a lounge, saturated in blue hues and filled with people._

_Oswald steps onto the stage and Ed knows he’s going to make a speech._

_Everything after that is a blur._

_Then, he’s on the stage as well, sprawled across the floor and Oswald is there, too, hands first on his shoulders and then cupping his face, tears not yet shed threatening to spill from his eyes, and he’s beaming as he says Ed’s name._

_Ed grins back._

_The scene changes._

_He’s back at the house, morning light filtering through the windows in the dining room, and Oswald stands in front of him, looking up at him as if he’s afraid, his mouth open._

_He says something, eyes wide as if it is urgent and suddenly it isn’t, nothing but tar-like blackness pouring from his lips._

_Disappointment blooms in Ed’s chest._

_The scene changes._

_There is a woman, and she looks like Miss Kringle but not quite, her hair blonde and her eyes not covered by a pair of glasses._

_She says something to him, watches him like a canary, waits for his reply, cocking her head, blushing coquettishly and looking away._

_Ed doesn’t understand._

_The scene changes._

_He doesn’t know how he knows this, but the woman is dead._

_He also knows she was important to him, but why, he doesn’t know._

_He also knows Oswald is the one that had her killed, uncaring enough to not even bother killing her himself._

_What Ed doesn’t know is why._

_The scene changes._

_They’re at the docks, him and Oswald, a gun in his hand and tears in Oswald’s eyes. Instead of words, bubbles escape from his mouth, murky and thick like mud._

_Ed points the gun and shoots._

_Oswald crumbles, pressing his hands to his stomach, blood and tar flowing through his fingers. The lapel of his suit shifts and there’s a black hole with scorched edges right where his heart should be._

_Ed pushes him into the bay and watches him sink._

_The scene changes._

_He’s alone until he isn’t; Oswald, covered in mud and seawater and blood, stands before him, grinning like the cat that got the canary._

_Rage and grief cloud his vision._

_The scene changes._

_  
He’s in a giant birdcage, staring through the bars at Oswald in the cage next to his._

_Oswald stares back, eyes both empty and full._

_There is anger in his chest, still, but there is also relief._

He’s alive _, Ed thinks._ He’s alive _._

_The scene changes._

_They’re back at the docks again, only this time it’s Oswald who has the gun._

_He doesn’t point it at Ed, holds it loosely as if it disgusts him._

_Ed blinks and they’ve switched places, the gun is back in his hand and he pulls the trigger once more, hands shaking and heart pounding._

_He doesn’t know why, anymore._

_The gun doesn’t go off._

_Oswald reaches into his vest pocket and pulls out a handful of bullets, smiles at Ed like his heart is breaking._

_White noise comes out of his mouth when he opens it._

_The scene changes._

_He’s encased in ice._

_The cold is numbing, almost comforting._

_His heart is a piece of white-hot coal._

***

 

Ed wakes to the sound of humming.

His glasses are askew and he corrects them, pushing them back up the bridge of his nose as he shifts to lie on his side. The hinges press into his temples uncomfortably, but he’s not awake enough to sit up just yet.

The sky is still dark outside, but in the glow of the artificial light spilling in from the window, he can see that he isn’t alone.

“Oswald?” he says, voice raspy with sleep. He doesn’t remember his dream: awareness of his surroundings brings a sense of loss, as if he’s missing a vital piece of information. The dream was important – this much he knows.

The humming stops.

“Did I wake you?” Oswald says, not sounding particularly apologetic about it. He’s sitting down on the floor, even though it can’t be comfortable.

Then, Ed remembers – it doesn’t matter whether it’s comfortable or not if he’s dead.

“Where were you?”

Oswald leans back, supporting his non-existent weight against the wall. “I don’t know. Not here.”

“Oh.”

“Did you find out anything that might help us while I was gone?” Oswald asks, closing his eyes as if he doesn’t expect there to be any good news.

“As a matter of fact, I did. Strange is hiding something, and I think that something is Indian Hill. If I’m not mistaken, and I rarely am, it’s been right here under our noses this entire time,” Ed replies, the thrill of uncovering a secret making him giddy.

“The energy surges under the asylum?” Oswald says, raising an eyebrow.

Ed’s grin drops. “You knew,” he says, disappointment bleeding into his words.

“Not the specifics but I’ve known there’s something below the asylum ever since I got here. I can feel it as we speak, thrumming along in the pit of the earth,” Oswald tells him, brow furrowing as if it hadn’t occurred to him that Ed couldn’t sense the world the same way he does until it was brought up. “Don’t you?”

Ed glares.

“That’s a no, then,” Oswald says. “I didn’t realize.”

Which is most likely as close to apologizing as he’s ever going to get.

Ed supposes it will have to do for now.

“Do you think it has anything to do with why you’re still here?” he asks even though he’d rather nurse his wounded pride in silence. But there will be a time for that; what matters right now is solving the mystery of the asylum and leaving this pit of despair and sickness behind.

Oswald shrugs. “It might, but it’s not like I can go there and check.”

Ed smiles.

“What?”

“I know someone who can.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally i had the plan to do weekly updates. as i should've expected, that didn't happen, so bi-weekly updates it shall be.  
> also, i'm not a biologist or involved with medical science at all, so ideas within concerning gerald crane's "fear toxin 1.0" and its effects and results are purely speculative.

A new inmate is brought to the playpen the next day.

The boy – because he doesn’t look a day over seventeen, might even be younger than that – stares at the older, louder inmates with wide eyes. The curious thing is he doesn’t seem to be afraid, as Ed had thought at first glance, but intrigued. He’s rail thin and pale, almost sickly but surprisingly steady on his feet, walking towards the table Ed is sitting at.

He gets a good look at the boy’s face and remembers a major case the GCPD had a year and a half ago. A short time for this good a recovery, if it’s really the same kid; Ed remembers the case file vividly, the father killed in a firefight with detectives Bullock and Gordon, the son left in a near-catatonic state thanks to a critical overdose of the cocktail of hormones tailored to overload the bilateral amygdala and, if what the report says is true, damage it enough to emulate the effects of Urbach-Wiethe disease on the area to render the subject unable to experience fear.

The boy – Jonathan Crane, Ed recalls – sits down at his table, eyeing the newspaper Ed is holding.

“Do you mind?” the boy says and his voice is hoarse, an uneasy sound. He clears his throat.

Ed looks at him for a moment. The boy’s eyes are empty, his face blank and revealing no emotion. He’s seen plenty of people with post-traumatic stress disorder, but this? This is something different, something he’s never seen before – and by the virtue of its uniqueness, fascinating.

He hands over the newspaper.

“Thank you,” the boy says quietly, skimming the pages with long, thin fingers. He’s not dismissive, exactly, more detached, as if everything going on around him was just a distraction from whatever it is that truly matters.

At first, it seems commendable, the focus with which the boy reads the newspaper. But after five minutes, it starts to get unsettling, to say the least; a scuffle breaks out in the far end of the room and the boy doesn’t even look up, focused on a column about a fancy new nightclub opening in the Diamond District.

Another five minutes pass by, the fight gets broken apart by guards and all associated parties are escorted out of the area before the boy finally finishes with the newspaper, folding it neatly and handing it back to Ed.

“Thanks again. They haven’t told me about anything that's happened in the outside world since I was brought here,” the boy says. “I’m not even sure what day of the week it is, much less what month or date.”

Ed tries to smile. The best he can do is a mild twitch of lips. “There’s usually a day or two of delay with the newspapers.”

The boy huffs, a sound which might pass for laughter, but there’s no warmth neither in it nor in his eyes. “Helps detach the crazies from the rest of the world. Nice to meet you. I’m Jonathan Crane,” the boy says, reaching out his hand for Ed to shake.

“Ed Nygma,” is the answer as Ed shakes the boy’s – Jonathan’s – hand. The kid’s grip is firm, his hands cold and bony, almost skeletal.

There’s something unnerving about him, something Ed can’t put his finger on, and said something keeps the other inmates to the further end of the room like prey animals sensing the presence of a predator and huddling together for protection, however feeble.

Jonathan could prove to be a useful ally.

If Ed can convince him to help, that is.

 

***

 

_He’s in Gotham, but it isn’t the Gotham he knows, the skyline all wrong and the city constrained by the bay far more sharply than he thinks he remembers it being._

_Or maybe it is his Gotham._

_He doesn’t know._

_In his hands is a strange contraption of metal and wires, shaped into a question mark._

_He places it gently inside a metal cage and closes that with a press of a button._

_The contraption lights up, emerald green spilling from between the bars of the little cage._

_The Bat will never know what hit him._

_The scene changes._

_He’s in an interrogation room, his bruised hands cuffed to the table, his suit the same shade of green as… as something he doesn’t seem to remember, a wisp of an aberrant thought already gone by the time he gets to it._

_There’s black question marks all over his clothes and on the backs of his hands, his split knuckles seeping blood into the makeshift bandages covering them._

_His right wrist aches._

_The sting becomes numbing, after a while._

_He looks up, into the standard one-way mirror on the wall opposite him. His eyes are empty, cuts and bruises blooming around his temples._

_He doesn’t recognize his own reflection._

_The scene changes._

_He stands before the doors of a massive building in the nicest neighborhood in town. Above the massive frosted glass and metal doors is an electric blue neon sign, spelling out words he can’t read but understands, somehow._

_He knows this place is important._

_He enters, cautiously, and is almost killed for his trouble._

Is that any way to treat an old friend? _he says and the Penguin smiles at him, lowering his gun._

_The scene changes._

_He’s walking into a dive bar, a small felt box in his chest pocket._

_It’s heavy against his heart._

_He takes a seat and waves over the bartender, orders a bottle of the cheapest whiskey they have._

_He must make a ridiculous picture in his expensive suit and bruised face, drinking alone in a dive bar in the skeeviest part of town._

_It seems only fitting._

_His life is a joke._

_The scene changes._

_He’s sitting on a comfortable sofa in a dimly lit parlor, the windows covered by heavy drapes, the stone fireplace alight and comforting in the damp cold of the house._

_The place feels familiar, as if he’s been there many times before, almost like… home?_

_His throat is sore. He touches it, fingers meeting bruised skin._

_Oswald enters the room, carrying a small cup._

_He can hear the liquid within slosh softly against the sides with every unbalanced step._

_Oswald sets the cup down in front of him on the coffee table and sits next to him, eyes wide and expectant. He says something, the words muddy and unclear._

_His own reply is unintelligible, but he knows the gist of what he’s saying._

_Oswald looks at him as if he’s hung the moon and the stars in the sky, and he would do anything to keep that look on the other’s face._

_Nothing matters more._

Ed wakes up. Fragments of his dreams float around him, already halfway to being forgotten.

The sky is getting lighter outside, nearing dawn, sparse rays of light illuminating the metal door of the cell on the wall opposite the window. He looks at the door for a few minutes, silently contemplating.

Then, he gets an idea.

He calls out for Oswald. He blinks and the other is there, as if he’s been there all along, just out of sight.

“It’s almost morning,” Ed says and Oswald scoffs.

“I can see that. What is it?”

“When is a door not a door?” Ed asks in lieu of a reply.

Oswald rolls his eyes. “When it’s ajar. What about it?”

“I’m not particularly familiar with occult lore, but I’d imagine there’s a reason iron is frequently cited as a deterrent. The doors in a building this old contain a decent amount of iron, which might be preventing you from leaving the cell. So, I figure, if you try to slip out while the door is open, you should be able to do so.”

“It’s worth a shot, I suppose,” Oswald says with a shrug. “Although I find it hard to believe the solution to my… _mobility issue_ could be this simple.”

Ed smiles. “The solution requiring the least amount of assumptions to work is typically the most appropriate one.”

“I think you’ll find common sense has little power in my situation,” Oswald says and Ed laughs softly.

“I’ve come to see that magic is nothing but science we can’t comprehend yet, even if a healthy amount of skepticism is best applied to both.”

 

 

They wait for the morning together, watching the light break and the day begin as it always does without fail, the asylum around them waking up along with the rest of the world.

It’s quiet, pleasant even, the stillness of Arkham in the early morning, deceptive in its soft security. The place seems harmless in the early hours, shreds of hope still clinging to its walls and inhabitants, all to be smothered as the day progresses.

As is routine by now, an orderly comes by to escort Ed out of the cell and into his morning therapy session, which means it’s probably Thursday.

Ed stores the information away for later, not that it matters much, and gives a minute nod to Oswald.

Oswald nods back. “Three. Two. One.”

The door opens.

Oswald slips out before the orderly manages to step in, moving faster than Ed’s ever seen him.

Ed fights the urge to grin. He was right about the door and things will go easier from here on out, because he doesn’t have to do everything alone. Granted, he’s perfectly capable of taking care of everything by himself, is used to doing it, but it’s nice to know that for once, he doesn’t have to.

As they pass through the corridors of the asylum, Oswald seems happier and lighter than Ed has ever seen him, practically glowing.

“I thought I could sense things in the cell but everything is so much more amplified out here,” he tells Ed with a smile. “This whole building is vibrating with energy.”

Not exactly an interpretation Ed would’ve gone with, but he can’t exactly argue or reply, considering the third person alongside them.

So, he smiles, a tiny twitch of the corners of his mouth.

It seems to be enough.

 

***

 

Oswald waits for him outside the psychologist’s cabinet.

“I couldn’t really explore,” he tells Ed, as if anticipating the question Ed would ask. “Everything gets muddled if I wander too far, it seems.”

It would be a notion worth investigating, if only Ed had the liberty of coming and going as he pleased. But, things being as they are, he sets the idea aside for later examination.

The grumpy orderly leads Ed, and by extension, Oswald, to the mostly-empty playroom. Thursday is the day of group therapy for roughly half of the inmates, which means besides Ed, there’s only three inmates present: two he doesn’t know and hasn’t attempted to, both too unhinged and unreliable to be of any use, and Jonathan.

The boy is sitting at a table at the far end of the room next to the window, his back to the wall, facing the fence separating the area from the corridor. Although he doesn’t seem to be paying much attention to the view in front of him, nor the other two inmates, completely engrossed in the book he’s reading.

The orderly opens the gate and Oswald slips inside before Ed can suggest him doing so.

Jonathan looks up as Ed enters and the orderly closes the gate behind him.

“Is that him?” Oswald asks and Ed nods, the motion minute, before giving a slightly bigger nod as a greeting to the boy.

Jonathan gives a little wave in return, going back to his book.

Ed grabs a few clean sheets of paper from the counters in front of the fence before making his way to the table closest to the gate and furthest from the other inmates, his back to them so they can’t see his mouth moving if he needs to speak, even though it’s hardly likely any of them would care.

Oswald sits down opposite of him, his back to the wall with a clear view of the room, keeping an eye on the inmates at the far end as well as the gate, and once again, Ed is hit with a pang of regret.

If only they’d properly met sooner…

They could’ve been unstoppable, working together to bring the city to its knees, equals in all the ways that matter. The idea seems like a wisp of some forgotten dream, something deep within his chest telling him it’s not too late to go and chase it, to claim a future that is rightfully his, rightfully _theirs_.

But it can’t be anything but a pipe dream, a baseless fantasy that will do more harm than good to him in the long run. Getting stuck in the past is what got him caught the first time, and Ed isn’t keen to make the same mistake twice.

He folds and unfolds the paper in his hands absently, lost in thought, muscle memory taking over.

“What are you doing?” Oswald asks and Ed starts, having forgotten himself.

“I was thinking,” he whispers and Oswald scoffs.

“I can see that. What is it?”

“I wish circumstances were different,” Ed confesses, trying to convey as much of his regret and displeasure as he can while keeping his voice low and his face blank. Just because there only seems to be one camera in the playroom, on the wall behind him – which is why he favors the seat he’s currently in – there is no guarantee there aren’t more that he just hasn’t noticed yet.

Unfortunately, Oswald doesn’t catch the underlying meaning of his words.

“We’ll get out of here,” he says, and Ed nods.

There has never been any doubt about that.

He folds the piece of paper a few more times and reveals his creation, a small paper penguin.

If Oswald’s smile turns a little watery, neither mention it.

 

***

 

“Hold on. What you’re trying to say is there’s a secret compound underneath the asylum called Indian Hill? Where they’re experimenting, what, on people?” Jonathan asks, keeping his voice down and crossing his arms in front of his chest as if to shield himself. It seems less like a natural response and more like a studied or perhaps half-remembered one.

It’s been an hour or so since lunch and the playpen now full of people, most of whom avoid the table that the trio are sitting at. Whether it’s because they’re uncomfortable being around Jonathan, or can somehow sense Oswald’s presence, Ed isn’t completely sure. Not that he cares; it’s easier for everyone involved if the others keep their distance.

Ed nods in answer to the boy’s question.

“And you want to break in? Why?”

“I have my reasons,” Ed says, not particularly keen to elaborate. He likes Jonathan, but to trust someone in an asylum would be suicide at worst, unwise at the very least, and he doesn’t know the kid well enough to trust him.

The fact that he doesn’t have a logical answer seems inconsequential beside that.

Oswald taps his fingers impatiently on the table. “Ask him if he’s going to help or not. We’ve wasted enough time as it is.”

Ed glances at him, mildly annoyed – he was getting to it, for heaven’s sake – but does as asked.

Jonathan huffs. “Sure, I’ll help. But what I still don’t understand is why you would want to risk yourself to do this. What’s in it for you?”

Ed is tired, every new morning greeted in the asylum seeming to leech more and more energy from his very bones. Which is partly why he snaps.

“What does it matter to you? Scared?” he hisses at Jonathan, who doesn’t seem fazed in the least. If anything, the kid looks amused.

Oswald is quiet beside Ed.

Jonathan shrugs. “I don’t care, you can do whatever you like, I’m just curious. Especially if you want me to put my neck on the line for you. And I should be asking you the same question. Are _you_ scared?”

More than anything, Ed wants to laugh. He could say, _constantly_. He could say, _only of the future_. He could say, _only of uncertainty_. He could say, _less than you’d think_.

He looks the kid in the eyes and sees nothing, no emotion, no fear, hardly any shred of humanity. Jonathan has the eyes of a dead man, with pale irises and seemingly devoid of all emotion. It’s almost comical that Oswald, even though _he’s_ technically the dead one, has eyes that are a thousand times more lively and expressive.

“I’m afraid when I need to be,” Ed says eventually.

Jonathan smiles, eyes empty. “Keep telling yourself that. Fear is the driving force behind everything humanity has done and will ever do. Find the reasoning behind any action and you will find fear to be the primary instigator. After all, we're all standing at the edge of the abyss, paralyzed by fear. It’s the only thing standing between us and diving in.”

“What a strange kid,” Oswald says, voicing exactly what Ed has been thinking.

Ed nods in agreement, and Jonathan seems to take it as if it was directed to him, ignorant of a third presence in their conversation.

Ed lets him.

“Will you help, then?” he asks.

Jonathan shrugs. “It’s not like I have anything better to do.”

 

***

 

“Why _are_ you helping me?” Oswald asks later that night, voice quiet. “You can just as easily get out of here with or without helping me leave. Hence my question: why do you stay?”

Ed recalls the conversation with Jonathan from earlier and his lack of a satisfactory answer to a similar question.

“Should I have a reason? Maybe I just want to help,” he counters, keeping his voice down. The walls have ears in this place, and Ed isn’t too keen to be overheard talking to what would seem to the outside observer as an empty room.

“Nobody ever does anything without having a motive,” Oswald says, refusing to meet Ed’s eyes. “I can’t expect you to be any different.”

_I’m doing this because you make me not want to be alone._

The thought hits Ed like a shot out of the dark and he wants to share the revelation but soften its edges, turn a vulnerable confession to a person he’s known for about a week and a half into something more palatable and reasonable even if that might stray from the truth.

“I’m helping you because I want to, okay?” he says instead of what he’s thinking, the words slipping out before he takes the time to consider them – he’s not lying, not exactly, but he isn’t telling the truth, either.

Although it doesn’t seem to matter, because the harsh set of Oswald’s jaw slackens and he looks completely surprised, as if he couldn’t imagine anyone would be on his side by their own choice. Sure, the reason they ended up meeting here and like this was out of their control, but everything that’s happened since…

_I am more precious than gold, but I cannot be bought, can never be sold, only earned if I am sought; if I’m broken I can still can be mended, at birth I cannot start nor by death am I ended._

It's more than Ed could’ve ever dreamed, and a decision he’d make again in a heartbeat.

The only thing sullying his enjoyment is the fact the best friend he’s ever had is a dead man. Quite literally.

And a dead man who seems to have disappeared without a word between two blinks.

Ed calls out for him.

There’s no reply.

He calls out again, unease seeping into his voice.

Nothing.

The lights outside the cell window flicker, casting strange shadows on the wall. The night outside is dark and overcast, as is the norm in the city, an inky mass of clouds covering any natural light that the moon and stars might shed.

Ed blinks, and Oswald is back, looking about as confused as Ed is feeling.

“What happened?” Ed asks and Oswald stares at him, eyes wide.

Ed stares back, raising his eyebrows. “Well?”

“I… I don’t know,” Oswald says and he’s shaking, small tremors rippling over him like waves on water. “I was here one moment and the next I wasn’t.”

If anything, Ed is even more confused than before.

“What does that even mean? Where did you go?”

Oswald lifts his chin defiantly. “I can’t explain it any better than you could, I’m afraid. I don’t know what it was. Can we drop the subject?” he says, tone clipped and deceptively calm.

Ed might have bought into the act if he hadn’t seen the way the other’s hands were trembling before Oswald noticed him looking and crossed his arms.

Something is wrong; Ed just doesn’t know what, yet.

Oswald flickers out again.

This time, Ed doesn’t call out, simply waits, figuring the other will return when he wants to.

He gives up after an hour of nothing, tentatively calling out one last time and when there’s no reply, going to sleep.

This time, he doesn’t dream.

 

***

 

Ed wakes up, still alone.

There’s a twinge somewhere behind his ribs and a nagging feeling that something has gone wrong.

He calls out and still there’s no reply.

Not that he expected one; it seems he’s on his own once again, and this time for good.

It’s, unsurprisingly, numbingly boring.

 

He goes through the motions of the day, not particularly interested in anything, not even the plan to break into Indian Hill – he will do it, sure, he can’t leave well enough alone, but his enthusiasm for it is dwindling by the minute.

He exchanges a few words with Jonathan during lunch, tells the kid to create a distraction a few minutes after he leaves to keep the staff’s attention occupied while Ed is gone; the method and execution of said distraction falls entirely into Jonathan’s hands.

He’s already arranged for the retrieval of a select few items he needs to find the entrance, and after getting them, there’s nothing to do other than wait.

Opportunity arrives when two guards come by the playroom to fetch another one of the inmates. Ed positions himself as close to the gate as he can without arousing suspicion, keeping his eyes trained on the copy of _Gotham Gazette_ in his hands – some drivel about a new threat to the public, already dubbed Mr. Freeze by journalists desperate to have the story of the day.

Hardly an imaginative moniker for a criminal who freezes people, in Ed’s humble opinion.

The guards drag the inmate along through the gate and let it slip shut behind them. Or, they think they do, but Ed is handy enough with his newspaper to stop the lock from clicking into place.

He waits for a minute or so, enough for the trio to continue down the corridor far enough for him to escape their attention but still manage to keep up. He gives the signal to Jonathan and starts the countdown as he slips out of the playroom and follows the guards.

Ed has prepared himself for a potential failure of just following someone being transported to a therapy session, but all available evidence suggests they are indeed on the way to somewhere secret. The guards take a winding path down the hallways, most likely intended to disorient and throw off the inmate they have with them – if the mental map Ed has constructed of the asylum is correct, and he has no reason to believe it isn’t, they’re going in circles, doubling back every now and then.

It’s highly suspicious and for the first time during the day, Ed’s curiosity is well and truly piqued once they leave the long-term containment wing and enter the section tying together the administrative wing with the in-house treatment wards.  

His vague enthusiasm for the mystery of it all is briefly curbed by the three men turning down what he thinks is another hallway, and after carefully peeking around the corner, stepping out to find it’s a dead end.

This is the place, then.

His only trouble now is finding the concealed entrance – and fast. Whatever Jonathan is doing as a distraction won’t hold the attention of the staff for long, and he’s already spent fifteen minutes wandering through the hallways and following the guards to get here.

He goes over the walls inch by inch, losing another five minutes in the process before finally finding something promising. He presses the small panel and it pops open, revealing a surprisingly new-looking lock. It’s easy enough to pick open, especially with the hair pin he swiped from one of the nurses a few days prior.

There’s a rumble somewhere behind the wall and a large panel slides open to reveal an old-fashioned elevator.

Despite his sour mood, Ed smiles.

Seems like whatever secret is hidden within the asylum, be it Indian Hill or not, it’s underground just as they’d suspected.

Said thought brings with it a sense of loss; what good is uncovering a huge secret if there’s no one to share it with? He used to think he liked being alone, liked being the only one smart enough to see things others couldn’t, thrived on it, even, but now that he knows what it’s like to have someone around who understands him, it’s far lonelier than he remembers.

The gate opens.

Ed steps into the elevator and pushes the crank to the lowest it can go.

There’s movement in the corner of his sight, but just as he turns to look, it disappears.

The cage rattles shut and the elevator starts its journey down.

 

***

 

_The first thing he hears when he regains consciousness is screaming._

_Someone – or something – is roaring somewhere nearby, the sound creating a relentless throbbing in his head._

_He doesn’t know where he is or how he got there._

_Flashes of something important, something he’s forgotten lurk just out of reach behind his eyelids. There’s people, many of them, some dead, some living, all staring at him as if he has answers for them when he has none._

_Slowly, he opens his eyes, trying to ignore the painful brightness of the fluorescent lights._

_He’s in a hospital room, or at least somewhere that would look like one, were it not for the heavily reinforced door and the lack of sharp items._

_He tries to sit up, but the door opens and a stocky woman in a smart outfit walks in and stands by his bedside, putting a hand on his chest to stop him from getting to his feet before he even has the chance to do so._

_She asks questions, about whether he can tell her what year it is (he can’t) and how many fingers is she holding up (three) and whether he knows what his name is (no) or what happened to him (no), takes notes of his answers on the chart she has brought into the room with her._

_By the end, his throat is sore and he’s completely drained, the result of a combined effort from trying to figure out what the woman wants to hear and fighting the urge to take out his anger and frustration on her while at her mercy, his heartbeat quickening and flushing blood to his cheeks._

_The woman seems disappointed for whatever reason, tells him he’ll get food soon enough if he doesn’t cause any trouble, leaves and locks the door behind her, and he’s alone again, staring up at the ceiling and wondering what happened to him, what is currently happening and what is yet to come._

_None of them are particularly comforting thoughts, the uncertainty he has in both his surroundings and his own identity making him uneasy._

_The lights flicker. Shadows dance in the corners of the room._

_Somehow, it does not feel unsettling in the least, as if some subconscious part of him remembers having seen and experienced far more terrifying things than a couple of faulty electrical wires, even though the room he’s in is sleek and modern and should be better equipped to deal with the occasional fluctuating electrical power of the city than most buildings here._

_He’s not sure how he knows that, or why the voice that thought had in his head sounded nothing like his own, but his whole body is sore and achy and he’s so, so tired._

_The thought brings with it flashes of something forgotten, the woods and light and cold and pain._

_He closes his eyes and tries to sleep._

 

***

 

The elevator reaches its destination and Ed has to take a moment to steady himself, his breathing labored and heavy, the shock of his discovery starting to settle in.

It _is_ Indian Hill, the insignia on the wall opposite the elevator crushing the last remnants of doubt. The fabled secret compound does exist, and if the snarls and howls coming from down the hall are to be believed, there’s nothing good going on.

The lights flicker, casting strange shadows on the walls.

The noises from down the hall turn to whimpers before ceasing completely.

Ed has yet to see what exactly he’s dealing with, but can already feel mild nausea set in. The only thing fueling him through the unease is a morbid fascination, a nagging thought in the back of his mind that tells him he needs to _know_ , that he can’t just leave – no matter how much he might want to – before solving the mystery.

He can’t bring himself to leave before getting at least some answers, if not all of them.

So, Ed wipes his hands dry on his jumpsuit, adjusts his glasses, opens the gate, and cautiously steps out of the elevator.

He walks slowly down the hall, listening for any footsteps or noises that might indicate he’s not alone in the corridor, and the numbers labelling the thick metal doors lining the hallway catch his eye.

 _AA367_ , _AA366, AA365_ …

The letters pertaining to the location, the numbers to individual subjects confined within, if the feral noises he heard before are anything to go by.

He reaches the end of the hallway and is faced with the decision of which way to go next.

Left or right?

Or back the way he came, upstairs and to the playpen to pretend nothing happened?

He stays still, weighs his options for a moment, uneasy about wandering blindly deeper into the compound, and remembers the conversation he overheard that had sparked his interest in the innermost workings of the asylum in the first place, the brief exchange between Hugo Strange and Ms. Peabody.

_Results…_

_Rather not test…_

_113…_

Could it be that 113 is, in fact, not a device or a chemical as Ed had initially thought, but rather a test subject?

It must be down here somewhere, hidden in the bowels of the complex if the declining numerical order of the designations on the doors is to be believed, close enough to be within his grasp and yet tantalizingly far, still.

Curiosity eventually overrides the instinct of self-preservation and Ed heads down the left branch of the hallway.

He won’t leave Indian Hill before he has found 113, whatever – or whoever – that may be.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> at this point i've completely given up on any kind of schedule and i'll just update this whenever i can.  
> also, this fic keeps taking more and more influence from greek mythology as i write it and i have no idea why.

Indian Hill is a lot bigger than Ed had thought it would be.

The quiet from after the lights stopped flickering has dissipated, bringing forth an array of sounds in its wake, which are part of the reason he doesn’t want to look in the cells. Because if he acknowledges the existence of the noises, then by extension, he must acknowledge the existence of whoever makes said noises.

_He’s already had his fill of seeing the abominations confined in Indian Hill – the thing with reptilian skin, saliva dripping from its open jaws as it roared and thrashed against its restraints, the woman who looked almost like anyone he’d meet out in the city had it not been for the cold, icy gleam of her eyes and her semi-translucent skin who wailed and wailed and begged him to help her._

But if he keeps his eyes trained on the way in front of him and only occasionally glances back to make sure he’s not being followed – even though being left alone seems implausible at best, and he knows he’ll pay the price for trespassing when he’s inevitably found out – it’s easier to pretend that everything is fine and he’s not terrified out of his mind.

The halls are surprisingly dimly lit, especially for a complex specializing in the containment of test subjects, as it seems, and it wouldn’t be irrational to assume that many, if not all, of them have been brought in without their consent. The test subjects confined in the cells are most likely a danger to anyone who walks in these halls, never mind if friend or foe.

He wonders if any of them know the difference anymore.

As he dwells deeper and deeper into the labyrinthine hallways, containment cells seem to be fewer and further from each other than they wear nearer to the elevator. The numeration, however, continues in declining order, and after five minutes of walking, his estimation tells him he should be nearing the cells containing subjects designated with numbers in the low hundreds soon enough.

Indian Hill is just one big puzzle, and he’s great at puzzles; it’ll be no time at all before he solves this one just like he’s solved all the others.

The flash of satisfaction that thought brings is quickly dampened by the sound of voices from down the intersecting hallway; guards, if the deep crassness of their tone is any indication. There’s nowhere to hide, so he hurries as quietly as he can towards a door marked STORAGE 21-C.

By some miracle, it’s unlocked.

Ed slips inside and the door clicks shut behind him mere moments before the people coming down the hallway reach the intersection where he’d been standing – not that he can hear them, as the thick door stops any sound from entering the room.

 _It’s quiet like a grave down here_ , he thinks.

There’s plenty of lockers lining the wall he’s facing, large enough that he could fit in to hide, if need be. He contemplates said possibility and he turns to explore the rest of the room.

A small yelp escapes his lips before he smacks his hand over his mouth, eyes wide.

 

***

 

_Sleep evades him._

_Whether it’s because he’s confused and frustrated – which, granted, seems like the most obvious answer – or because of something else entirely, he doesn’t know._

_So, he decides to get out of bed and explore the room, which proves to be far more difficult than initially anticipated when his right leg gives out the moment he puts his weight on it and he topples over in spectacularly ungraceful fashion._

_A sharp pain radiates from his knee all the way to his spine and he fights the whimper crawling its way up his throat as he grabs the end of the bed to get up, careful this time to lean on his left leg instead, setting the right at an angle that decreases the tension and ache._

_He sits back on the bed, rolls up the leg of his pants, and checks his right knee. There’s a knotty, gnarly scar running along the side of it and he remembers a rainy afternoon, a woman he hated and admired in equal measure, and excruciating pain, but not where or how or when the injury happened._

_He rolls up his sleeves, too, and sees multiple thin scars that look like slashes from a knife on his forearms; pushes aside the collar of his shirt and sees more marks on his chest and stomach, the most noticeable of them right near his left collarbone, with puckered edges and a dip in the middle. It’s from a gunshot wound, he knows, somehow._

_Whoever he used to be doesn’t seem to have been a very upstanding citizen._

_Discarding the impromptu self-examination, he takes a few tentative steps away from the bed, careful not to jostle his aching leg too much, and inspects the room he’s in. The walls are bare, dull gray paint covering what a few knocks reveal to be metal paneling, further reinforcing the already thick walls._

_He’s in a cell, then, not a room._

_He walks over to the door, slowly, doing his best to keep his balance. There’s no doorknob, just a little hatch with a shelf and an observation window above it, roughly six by eleven inches, low enough that he can see into the hallway. A growl and the rattling of chains from somewhere nearby startles him, forcing him to take a step back and he almost trips but catches himself before toppling for the second time in about as many minutes._

_He’s just about to go back to the door and try to see where the sound came from when a man appears on the other side._

_The man is shorter than him, wearing red-tinted glasses and a smile without any warmth in it, looking at him as if he’s a lab rat that’s done particularly well in a test it didn’t know it was a part of._

_“Good afternoon,” the man behind the window says, the sound of his voice tinny through the metal door. “How are you today?”_

_He scoffs. “I’m locked in this room against my will. Take your guess from that.”_

_The man smiles wider, almost shark-like._

_“I can see you’re feeling more confident. Have you remembered who you are?”_

_He glares at the man._

_“I’ll take that as a no, then,” the man says, disappointment visible on his face, eyes narrowed behind the red-tinted glasses, but his tone remains cordial, even warm._

_Suspiciously so._

_“Who are you? What do you want from me?” he asks, crossing his arms and doing his best to make himself look threatening and authoritative, even though he knows he must look ridiculous in his bland, baggy clothes. “What is this place?”_

_The man smiles again and it rubs him the wrong way but he can’t say anything, not while he’s at the man’s mercy. “My name is Hugo Strange. As for the rest of it… all in due time, for we have much to discuss.”_

***

 

There’s dead people stuffed into containment tanks.

It’s about as pleasant as it sounds.

There’s five that Ed can see, their faces distorted by the curved glass of the tanks, floating in liquid, dimly lit with blue light emanating from the bottom of the contraptions they’re in that makes them look far more like ghosts than the actual ghost he knows.

Well, _knew_ , because there’s been no sign of Oswald and there’s a real possibility he has moved on to greener pastures, wherever those may be. It won’t be Heaven, not for a man like the Penguin, not that Ed finds comfort in or believes in God or the existence of Heaven and Hell in the first place.

He wonders briefly if Oswald did.

Wherever his missing friend may be, though, it’s certainly not here, stuffed into a container and floating in some sort of liquid without a shred of dignity. Most of the corpses look as if they’re merely asleep, no visible injuries or abrasions on them to indicate how they met their respective ends, but the one at the furthest end of the room is mangled, looking like pieces of their body have been carved off by an expert’s hand – and most of their injuries seem to have been sustained before death, although it’s hard to tell without a closer examination that he doesn’t have the tools or the time for.

Ed ponders why they’d be storing cadavers here when there’s an available morgue upstairs and none of the possible answers he can muster up are comforting, not even the – regrettably – likeliest ones. Considering the power fluctuations that seem to plague both the asylum above and Indian Hill itself, they’re doing something down here that requires a lot of electricity.

Could it be…?

It seems almost comically ironic that he’d find a modern-day Dr. Frankenstein within these halls, but Ed can’t say he’d be all that surprised. After all, it is Gotham, and where else would such macabre science as reanimating the dead be done if not here?

And if what he’d overheard is true, Strange and his cronies weren’t doing particularly well with that a week ago, but that is no guarantee that they haven’t had a breakthrough in the time since. Still, potential zombies and monsters are the least of his worries right now.

He walks past the containers, stopping for a moment every now and then to peek at the lifeless subjects within, and is almost at the blank service door on the left side of the room when there’s the tell-tale beep of a key card and the larger panel door on the wall opposite starts sliding open.

So much for hiding in the lockers.

He moves quickly as he can to the shadowed corner closest to him, hunches down and hopes that whoever is coming in doesn’t notice his presence. If they go into the room deep enough and if, by some holy grace, he manages to not trip over his own feet, he could leave through the panel door before it closes.

It’s a long shot, but it’s the only option he has, and he finds himself thinking whether he should first find someplace to swipe some other clothes from as well as a key card before venturing deeper into the compound. Unfortunately, time is steadily working against him – it won’t be long now until his absence could be noticed upstairs – and it’s starting to look like he’ll be lucky to make it out of Indian Hill alive, if he makes it out at all.

The door opens fully and it’s just Ed’s luck that it’s Hugo Strange himself, accompanied by Ms. Peabody, two staffers, and three armed guards, who steps into the room he’s currently hiding in.

Ed stays put, keeping his eyes on the group as they enter but careful not to look at anyone for too long: he knows all too well what it feels like to be stared at, and cannot afford to raise any suspicions that would cause them to look his way, not while he’s defenseless and crouching in a corner like an animal, afraid and undignified.

“I think Mr. Karlo will be next in line for the procedure,” Strange says and motions the staffers to the further end of the room where the body of a stocky, bald man is suspended in the containment tank closest to the door Ed came in from. “Prepare the subject for extraction.”

Ms. Peabody notes something down on her clipboard, frowning. “Are you certain, sir? We’re starting to run low on subjects and the process still isn’t perfected – our success rate has been far lower than projected.”

Strange cocks his head, offering her a smile.

Ms. Peabody looks back at him, not appearing particularly reassured.

“Practice makes perfect, my dear,” he tells her, and it seems to placate her somewhat, because while the sour look on her face doesn’t disappear, she doesn’t argue any further.

They step deeper into the room together, Strange telling the guards to follow and assist the staffers with whatever it is they’re doing, and it doesn’t really matter anyway because Ed can’t spare his attention to puzzle over it, not when he needs to make his move.

He waits a few seconds, just until everyone’s backs are turned, and darts out of his hiding spot, heading out the door as quickly as he can without making any noise. He makes it out of the door and luckily, it seems to be at the end of a hallway, so he can continue, unobserved.

“Did you notice our houseguest?” Ms. Peabody asks once she deems him to be out of earshot from the room. “Should I alert security?”

Strange grins. “I’m curious to see what he thinks he’s doing here. Let him be for now. If he starts causing too much trouble, though…”

Ms. Peabody smiles.

 

***

 

_He’s sitting on the bed, annoyed and bored out of his mind._

_It’s not confinement, per se, that irks him, it’s the unbearable monotony of his surroundings, everything a variation on gray, a small room with no readily available distractions. Already he has painstakingly measured the size of his cell – because that’s what it is, if he’s honest with himself – step by step: fifteen steps wide, twelve steps long. Of course, whether his gait is a viable measuring device remains questionable; he’s discovered his steps are irregular at best and a wobbly waddle at worst._

_Strange promised to bring him something to amuse himself with and has yet to deliver on said promise._

_Has yet to deliver on most of his promises, in fact: he still isn’t sure what the man wants from him, let alone how he got here or what happened before. He must have had a life before being here, he thinks, perhaps even a family (a mother; laughter and melancholy music and safety and dancing and dancing and dancing) and a job (a king; gunshots and rage and gore and pain and pain and pain) and a home (a lopsided building; dark stairways and cheap apartments and roses and dust and porcelain dishes and soft linen)._

_He doesn’t remember everything, but he remembers enough to know that there was something, good and bad all mixed together and he might’ve been happy but might just as well have been unhappy. It’s hard to tell without clear memories to rely on; he has flashes, wisps of recollection that feel right, but nothing concrete._

_He doesn’t remember where he grew up or who his parents were or where he went to school or whether he had any friends, doesn’t remember what happened to his leg to make him limp so severely, doesn’t remember where he got the scars marring his torso and his forearms, doesn’t remember what his personality was like or what his favorite color was._

_But he does remember what it feels like to be falling underwater and playing the piano and what rain feels like falling on his cheeks and how it feels to hurt and how it feels to kill._

_His body remembers where his mind does not._

_And that’s the most unsettling facet of his whole situation, especially with people showing up and asking him about his identity. He can’t tell them that thanks to the lack of a past to draw from, he can’t begin to know who he used to be – he can only tell them who he is right now, and he’s not sure how to put that into words others can understand._

_It’s hard to be a sum of one’s experiences when one does not have any._

_He lies down and hums to himself, slightly off-key but it calms him (soft hands stroking his hair and forehead kisses and warm hugs and singing, slightly off-key much like he knows his own voice would be and feeling like he could conquer the world), and eventually exhaustion takes over, the mental and physical strain of the time he’s spent awake finally catching up with him._

_Before he knows it, he drifts off to restless dreams of pain and screaming and crushing despair but for the first time since he woke up, he doesn’t feel alone, and that’s comfort enough._

***

 

Ed wishes, not for the first time in the hour or so he’s been down here, that he had a map or at least the slightest notion of where he might attain one.

He doesn’t like wandering around blind, without a plan – well, he has a plan, it’s just that its contents are rather fluid at the moment, more like having a general objective rather than a meticulous plan of action which he usually favors.

Improvising has never been one of his strong suits.

So, he trudges on, keeping an eye out for any employees or guards, but the place has been quiet so far, save for the close call with Strange and his entourage. It’s almost too quiet, now that he thinks about it. It’s the middle of the day; shouldn’t there be more staff members present in a compound this large?

Maybe his usual bad luck is turning. After all, he did manage to get out of the storage room with relative ease. And to get into Indian Hill on his first attempt.

Still, the thought nags at him.

He’s missing something.

As much as it irritates him, though, he has to keep going: he’s all but buried the idea that he’ll make it back upstairs unnoticed, but he still has to find 113. Anything less than achieving the goal he’s set for himself is unacceptable.

He makes another left turn and reaches yet another hallway. It seems to be more like an administrative block than the containment units he saw on the way here, but there are numbers marking the doors.

_AA117, AA116…_

His heart beats faster.

He made it.

Quick glances into the observation windows of the doors reveal the cells are empty.

_AA115, AA114…_

The lights flicker.

He looks up, annoyed. If they go out right now, just as he’s about to see what it is he came for, he might do something he’ll regret later.

There’s a lump in his throat; he swallows, trying to get rid of it.

He clenches his hands to stop them from shaking.

Both cells are empty like the ones before.

 _AA113_.

It’s a door much like the others, the only difference being this cell is, without a doubt, occupied.

A small figure is lying on the bed, facing away from the door. A tuft of dark hair is visible from beneath the top of the covers, which have been pulled up far enough to over the rest of their body.

He was right after all.

113 _is_ a test subject.

As if sensing they’re being looked at, the figure stirs. The light in the cell is dim enough that it’s hard to make out the details, but when 113 stands up and faces towards the door for the first time, it’s…

A small gasp escapes from Ed before he can stop it.

“Oswald?” he says, completely bewildered.

Test subject 113 takes a few steps towards the door, and if Ed had any doubts before about the man’s identity, they’re gone by the time the light catches the other’s face. Appearances are far easier to fabricate than mannerisms, yes, but the way that the man moves, the way he furrows his brows and lifts his chin in defiance combined with the way he looks, it’s…

It’s breathtaking.

It’s Oswald, here, in the flesh, not six feet from where Ed is standing, and he feels like he could cry, tears threatening to spill out, because the ghost could never compare to the real thing, not now that he’s seen what the real Oswald looks like, alive and radiant in this hellhole.

Ed can’t help the smile that breaks onto his face, so wide it makes his cheeks hurt.

He hasn’t lost the best friend he’s ever had to Heaven or Hell or whatever afterlife there is.

Not at all.

It’s nothing short of a miracle, and if Ed wasn’t a believer in a benevolent fate before, he sure is now.

At least, right up until the moment Oswald stares at him with no recognition in his gaze, eyes wide and almost feral, and asks, “Do I know you?”

Ed’s smile falls, hurt taking its place.

It’s a parody of their true first meeting, except Ed has the benefit of recollection when Oswald has none.

Still, Ed gives it a shot.

“It’s me, it’s Ed. You know me, Oswald,” he says, desperate to spark any kind of recognition in the other. “Don’t you remember?”

Oswald furrows his brow even more, squares his shoulders and looks Ed right in the eye.

“Why do you call me that? Who are you? What do you want from me?” he asks, taking a wobbly step closer to the glass separating them.

 

***

 

_He wakes from his dreams and feels like someone is staring at him._

_He gets up slowly, careful not to make the same mistake he did before and fall over only to embarrass himself (there must be a camera in the room, he thinks, how else could his first visitors have known when to show up otherwise) and possibly make his knee injury worse._

_When he turns, he expects to see Hugo Strange looking back at him through the glass, come back to pry him with questions he can’t answer, cryptic as a sphinx._

_Instead it’s…_

_“Oswald?” the man says, lips remaining parted after the words have left them, and with a start, he realizes the man is addressing him._

_The name sounds familiar, somehow, feels right, but still he hesitates for a moment before he steps forward, half-dragging his right leg along: the uncomfortable bed has made it ache worse than before and he’ll have to get some painkillers if he’s to continue to sleep on it. In the case he can’t manage to bargain for a better bed, that is._

_The man looks at him, grinning so wide it must hurt, and there’s so much happiness in his gaze that it threatens to spill out in the form of tears. Somehow, he looks familiar, the jumpsuit with a chest tag reading D-171 in red letters, the lanky frame and the slightly curly brown hair, the wide, dark eyes, the high cheekbones and the line of his jaw, even the glasses resting on the bridge of his nose._

_He doesn’t understand._

_“Do I know you?” he says and the man’s smile falls completely._

_There’s a pang behind his ribs. He didn’t mean to wound (not this time, not right now, not him), but finds it hard to admit any fault for something he couldn’t control. The confusion must show on his face, because the other’s eyes widen and he stares for a moment._

_“It’s me, it’s Ed. You know me, Oswald. Don’t you remember?” the other says, and he doesn’t, can’t fight the irritation seeping into his voice when he replies because he’s met three people so far and all of them want him to remember something that he cannot, are asking him to do the impossible and are disappointed when he can’t deliver._

_“Why do you call me that? Who are you? What do you want from me?” he says and the man – Ed, if that really is his name –  looks dumbstruck, as if he expected a completely different answer and doesn’t understand what’s happening._

_That makes two of them._

_Ed is just about to answer when there’s the telltale sound of the door at the end of the hallway opening; the man looks over and his eyes widen, so much so that it’s almost funny._

_“Mister Nygma,” a familiar voice says from where he can’t see, out of the sightline the observation window allows him to have from within the cell. “I see you’ve made a friend.”_

_“Professor Strange,” Ed replies, his voice all effortless bravado, even though it’s easy to tell he’s terrified, his shoulders tense and the expression on his face far more like a grimace than an actual smile, which is what he seems to be attempting. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”_

_He’s silent in the cell, watching Ed through the window – he still can’t see Strange, and is beginning to think it’s intentional, that Strange is staying further back where he can’t see him as an intentional move, although he can’t be certain what it is exactly that Strange is trying to achieve by it._

***

 

Hugo Strange has absurd timing.

It’s almost funny, in a way, despite the situation decidedly not being humorous at all. At least not for Ed, who is probably going to get killed for his trouble and just exactly when he was starting to think that maybe, just maybe, he can set things right.

“I’m afraid we must cut this little visit of yours short,” Strange says, the six guards he has flanking him stony-faced and in any other situation, Ed would be flattered, but right now all he can think of is how he could be gunned down in this godforsaken place any moment and no one would care.

He glances through the window at Oswald, and there’s no hint of emotion on the other’s face besides curiosity. He doesn’t recognize Ed, genuinely unaware of how much Ed knows about him and vice versa. Unaware of his own identity, it seems.

And even though the cards seem to be played completely against him, Ed realizes he’s not ready to die. Not yet, at least, and certainly not here.

So, he turns to face Strange fully and gives a nod of assent, signaling he’ll come along without any trouble. Strange smiles, the red-tinted glasses over his eyes covering any hint of warmth in his eyes.

Not that Ed would be foolish enough to expect there to be any.

“I’ll see you,” he tells Oswald before he goes, and he doesn’t know why. It’s not very likely that they’ll see each other again, considering how Ed’s probably going to be walking to his own execution in a few seconds’ time.

Still, a sliver of hope clings to his heart, and the seemingly mutual silent agreement that whatever Strange is going to do to him, he won’t do it here and now helps: not in a capacity that would give Ed any measure of confidence in his fate, but enough.

He steps away from the cell and walks down the hall to meet the two guards that Strange motions over to collect him. They grab his arms, rather painfully – they’ll leave bruises, he’s sure; if he lives long enough, that is – and half-drag, half-push him as Strange leads the way to wherever it is he intends to have Ed taken.

Like Orpheus returning from the underworld, Ed is unable to keep himself from looking back.

 

***

 

I’ll see you.

_The words bounce back and forth in his mind as he watches Ed walk away, towards Strange and whoever the man has with him – he may have been many things before this, but he knows he’s not stupid._

_And neither is Hugo Strange, if their previous encounter is anything to go by._

_There are no sounds to indicate there being a struggle, which leads him to believe the other has left willingly. Considering the jumpsuit he was wearing – an inmate, but where? How did the man end up here? Why?_

_It troubles him, the obvious signs the other recognized him, was beyond happy to see him. Because he doesn’t remember Ed, despite some small part of him which tells him maybe he should. That he should recognize the name the man called him by, that he had another name, too, once upon a time, that he’s perhaps seen this man before, somewhere, has spoken to him before, in another lifetime._

_But Ed is gone now and with him the chance that he might finally get some answers as to who he is, where he is and what happened to him to make him forget._

_They bring him food on a metal tray, mashed potatoes and peas and a chewy chicken fillet – none of it tastes like anything, the texture gummy and unpleasant, but he scarfs it down anyway, figuring he’ll need his strength._

_There’s nothing to do but get back to bed and try to sleep, even though he’s not tired. Because some instinct, or perhaps some forgotten experience, tells him he should rest up while he still can, since there’s no telling when he’ll get the chance again, not with how there doesn’t appear to be any rhyme or reason to the visits he gets._

_So, he lies down once again and closes his eyes. In the space between waking and dreaming, he tries to ignore the occasional screeches from somewhere down the hall, and tries to forget the way Ed looked at him as if there was history between them. It’s both exciting and frightening, so full of promise and something else, a something he doesn’t know how to name._

_He succeeds in accomplishing the former. The latter is a wholly different matter, because the man follows him into his dreams, strange visions of lives he doesn’t remember living, sometimes with, sometimes without Ed in them, looking different every time just as he knows he does himself, and Ed’s presence is both a curse and a comfort, familiar and foreign._

_In some scenarios, Ed tries to kill him; succeeds, too, in a few. In others, Ed is a friend, however he can be, and the affection he feels in these bleeds into the former, makes his heart beat faster and his hands shake, the words he’s trying to say crackling and sticking in the back of his throat like nails._

***

 

Ed is brought back upstairs.

Strange dismisses three of the guards on the way back from the juncture where the hidden entrance to the elevator is, and the other two keep their grip on Ed’s arms, uncomfortably so. Peabody joins them once the guards are gone, her heels knocking out a steady rhythm on the concrete floor as she walks, her face stony and betraying no emotion other than mild annoyance.

They take him to what Ed knows to be Strange’s personal office, a relatively small but comfortable room on the third floor of the administrative block. Ed was brought there when he first arrived, when he first met Strange and Peabody what feels like a lifetime ago.

Once they’re inside, the guards let go of him and Strange motions them to leave.

Peabody presses her lips together into a tight line, obviously not pleased.

Strange doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe he just doesn’t care, it’s hard to tell – he sits down behind the desk and picks up a pen, twirling it between his fingers.

Peabody stands beside the desk, still as a statue.

“Take a seat, Mr. Nygma,” he tells Ed, who complies, sitting down on the chair in front of the desk. “Now… What to do with you…” 

Ed sits still, presses his fingernails into the palm of his hand and bites his tongue.

“I think he and Mr. Stirk would be fast friends,” Peabody says and Strange laughs, the sound reverberating through the room.

“Yes, I see what you mean, my dear,” he says and Ed feels a shiver run down his spine. “An excellent idea, as usual.”

Peabody preens ever so slightly under the praise.

Ed fights the desire to roll his eyes.

“I can be useful,” he says, fixing his eyes on Strange. 

Strange cocks his head. “Is that so?”

“I was smart enough to figure out the way downstairs; give me a chance and I will prove myself to be an asset,” Ed tells him, and Peabody scoffs.

“You should be made an example of,” she says, her tone flat and her eyes narrowed at him as if she can’t believe a lowly creature such as himself would dare speak this way.

Ed pushes down the rage boiling in the pit of his stomach.

“You could do that,” he says, “Or you could do the smart thing and listen to my offer. I can be useful to you because I worked for the GCPD, and I know they’re getting close to exposing the little side project you’ve got going on in the basement, as well as plenty of information that can be used against them. And I can also be useful to you because I can help you with a certain caged bird you’re having trouble with.”

Strange contemplates for a moment.

Peabody rolls her eyes. “What makes you think you’re in the position to make any offers?” she asks Ed.

He shrugs. “What has no hands but might knock on your door, and you better open up if it does?”

“An opportunity,” Strange says.

“Correct. I’m offering you one here,” Ed tells him with a smile, even though his heart is pounding and his palms are clammy with sweat. “The choice whether to take advantage of it or not is yours, sir. After all, I’m completely expendable.”

“You’re absolutely right about that,” Peabody says and Ed keeps the smile plastered on his face.

 _Later_ , he thinks. _If I make it through this alive, there’ll be time for payback._

Strange twirls the pen between his fingers, deep in thought – Ed can almost see the cogs turning in his head. Peabody is looking unhappier by the second, her mouth set in a line so thin she must be gritting her teeth hard enough for it to hurt.

The bait is laid out and presented as appealing as Ed could make it in such a short time, and everything hinges on whether Strange will bite and play along.

If not, Ed’s done for.

If he does, it’s very likely Ed’s done for anyway, but he’ll buy himself some time.

A minute passes.

Another.

Ed waits patiently, trying to make himself look as open and honest as possible, trying to sway Strange’s decision to favor him.

“Very well, Mr. Nygma,” Strange says eventually and Peabody’s face falls.

She composes herself quickly, though, squaring her shoulders and taking a deep breath.

“Now, Ms. Peabody, if you would escort Mr. Nygma back to his cell… I think he’s had enough excitement for the day, don’t you?”

Peabody complies, motioning for Ed to stand up. He does, and she moves to take ahold of his arm – he figures she’d be stronger than him, considering her stocky build and the fact she’s probably very, very angry with him, and that it would hurt a considerable amount more than the grips of the guards did.

“I think you’ll find there’s no need for that, my dear,” Strange says, looking Ed right in the eye. “Mr. Nygma has promised to help us, after all, and it would do him no good to try and run now. Would it?”

Ed shakes his head, a role model of obedience.

Peabody rolls her eyes, her back turned to Strange, and simply motions for Ed to follow her.

“Good day, Mr. Nygma,” Strange says before the door closes behind them. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're past the 20k word mark! this fic has honestly taken on a life of its own and i'm so excited, i can't even begin to tell you.

The evening comes, the rare sight of a sunset painting slivers of the sky barely visible above the asylum roof pastel shades of red and pink. It doesn’t last long, only a few minutes before the clouds roll in again, extinguishing what’s left of the sunlight and turning late evening into night.

 _It’ll be spring, soon_ , Ed thinks, sits on his bed and stares up at the ventilation duct cover in the ceiling, wondering if maybe he should get out while he still can.

It would certainly be easier than his current plan. Sure, he’d be on the run, but at this point even being a fugitive might be preferable to becoming a chew toy for whatever monster they’ve got waiting for him in the case he fails to deliver on his promises.

For some reason, he can’t bring himself to do it.

Maybe it’s because he’s still not satisfied with what he’s learned so far – he knows there’s more to it, a reason other than scientific curiosity to why Strange is trying to resurrect the dead in the basement – or because he doesn’t want to leave Oswald behind.

Maybe both.

Maybe neither.

As far as he knows, Ed doesn’t have a martyr complex. But that doesn’t mean he’s willing to leave behind his only friend, even if said friend has no memory of him: in a sense, it’s a matter of principle, and in another, a matter of pride.

 _Nobody ever does anything without having a motive. I can’t expect you to be different_ , Oswald told him what seems like a lifetime ago, even though it’s been only a couple of days.

 _Find the reasoning behind any action and you will find fear to be the primary instigator,_ Jonathan said, and the way the boy’s eyes seemed to see right through him, down to the deepest, darkest parts of his core, had been unsettling, to say the least.

Both had been right, in their own way.

The ache in his arms is grounding, in a way, finger-shaped bruises from the ever-so-gentle hands of the security guards standing out proud and reddish-purple against the pale skin on his arms, and it yanks him out of his train of thought for a moment.

A quick glance outside the window reveals it’s getting to somewhere around midnight.

He should rest up while he can; he has the feeling tomorrow is going to be a long day.

So, he closes his eyes and tries to sleep, his mind racing a million miles a minute despite his best efforts to quiet it.

 

_He’s in the cell with Oswald’s ghost, on the verge of falling asleep._

_It’s the middle of the night; the soft glow from the lamps outside is bathing the room in a warm light, casting flickering shadows on the metal door._

_They’ve been talking for hours, Ed lying on his back on the bed, Oswald sitting on the floor and leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the room._

_Oswald hums, the slightly off-key melody contrasting soft and pleasant against the cold discomfort of the asylum._

_“I can bring tears to your eyes and resurrect the dead. I form in an instant and last a lifetime. What am I?” Ed says, eyes closed._

_“Hmm?”_

_Ed repeats the riddle._

_“A memory,” Oswald says. “What about it?”_

_“You’ve been humming the same song every night. I figure it has some meaning for you.”_

_Oswald sighs. “When I was little, my mother used to sing it to me every night before bed. She’d tell me not to listen to the other kids, that I was handsome and clever and that I’d be somebody, someday. And I tried to believe her, even though I didn’t see anything of what she said I was when I looked in the mirror. She saw that, I think, but she still said it every night without fail.”_

_He smiles sadly, closes his eyes and leans his head back against the wall._

_Ed wonders if ghosts can cry._

_“Tell me about her,” he says and Oswald looks at him, a wordless question in his expression._

_“I… My parents were hardly what you’d call loving,” he explains, not wanting to ruin the moment with describing his violent, idiotic father and strung-out mother more than strictly necessary, “and I think I’d like to try and understand what it was like to grow up with a mother as wonderful as yours. So, tell me about her.”_

_Oswald’s smile is watery, but he obliges Ed’s request and tells him about his mother and what little he knows about his father, all the good parts of his childhood like when she took him to a fair for his sixth birthday even though she could hardly afford it, how she used to fuss over him and worry, how proud she was of him and how she used to cook, using old recipes she’d learned from her mother who’d learned them from her own mother and so on, and how she’d taught him to cook borscht and bake pirozhki when he was nine so he could feed himself if she had to work late._

_Ed listens to it all, even though he’s tired and really should sleep, because the soft smile on Oswald’s face as he recalls story after story is more than worth staying awake for._

***

 

Ed goes to therapy the next morning as usual, sits there and lets his mind wander while his body works on autopilot, answering the doctor’s asinine questions and pretending to listen to the babble that’s supposed to be helpful to him.

After that ordeal is finally over, they escort him to the playroom.

Jonathan is there, sitting at the table Ed habitually favors, reading a newspaper, two massive books resting on the table by his elbow.

The kid doesn’t look up from the newspaper but at this point, Ed doesn’t expect him to, anyway – he just sits down at the table, his back to the rest of the room, and waits until the other is done before speaking.

“Anything interesting?” he asks and Jonathan shrugs.

“Violence and deaths and city-wide threats. Nothing out of the ordinary for this city,” he says, folding the newspaper neatly and offering it to Ed.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Ed says but accepts the paper, lets his eyes glide over the front-page news of a five-car collision on the highway leading out of the city before neatly tearing the page from the binding. He briefly considers making it into a plane but the paper is far too soft to be any good in the air, so he just folds it into something resembling a boat.

It feels a bit like giving up.

“How’d your expedition go?” Jonathan asks, sharp eyes watching the movement of Ed’s hands with a minuscule spark of curiosity.

“I got what I went there for and then some,” Ed says, partly because the secret is not his to share, at least not when it could put Oswald’s life – _second_ life – in danger, and partly because it feels good to know something no one else does.

Jonathan seems satisfied with the answer, although it’s hard to tell with him; he doesn’t press any further, though, which Ed chooses to interpret as a positive response, just opens the book closest to his elbow to look at diagrams of molecular structures, bordered by tiny columns of text.

“Biochemistry, huh?”

Jonathan looks up. “They won’t let me have access to my father’s research – it’s ‘too traumatizing’ considering what I’ve been through, they say,” his voice drips with barely-concealed mockery, hands barely lifting for his slender fingers to form the air quotes, “–so I have to make do with what they’ll let me read. Old, most likely out of date books, sure, but they’ll do for now.”

Ed nods, unraveling his creation absently and reconstructing it until it becomes too soft to fold.

“It’ll pass the time,” he says and Jonathan shrugs.

“I want to use my time wisely. I’ll be out of here soon, no matter what my great-grandmother might want. And it’ll do me good to prepare for college, even if I’m stuck in a madhouse right now.”

Ed nods, glances up at the ceiling out of habit, listens to the humdrum of the inmates squabbling and chatting behind him. “How long until you get out?”

“One month and twenty-three days,” Jonathan says, lips twitching into something resembling a smile. “Although sometimes it feels like I’ve been here forever and will remain until I grow old and die.”

“Time itself does not abide by the laws of Arkham,” Ed tells him with a small smile at the corner of his mouth.

Jonathan’s smile grows wider by a tiny fraction in response.

 

***

 

_The worst thing about being confined in this cell, he decides when he’s been lying awake for an hour, staring up at the ceiling and starting to notice patterns in the plaster, is that it’s impossible to tell what time it is._

_He’s sure – well, mostly sure, anyway – that elsewhere time continues to pass normally, but here…_

_Being here is like being outside of time, his only indication of its passing the meals he gets at certain intervals; he has yet to determine whether said intervals are regular or not. There’s no natural light and by extension, no real way to even begin to guess what time it might be when he gets fed._

_He passes the time by sleeping, by counting the number of spiders he can see in the cell from where he’s currently standing, sitting, or lying down, by listing the things he knows about himself._

_Said list is pitifully short and reads as follows:_

  1. _His name may or may not be Oswald,_
  2. _Baggy, light gray clothes are an unflattering look on him,_
  3. _He has been imprisoned by some entity/entities for unknown purposes and_
  4. _He doesn’t remember anything from before this._



_It’s hardly anything to build an identity around, but it’s not like he has any other options. Not if he won’t see Ed again, who might be capable and, most of all, willing to provide some answers or, at the very least, tell him something useful._

_They bring him a meal and it’s nothing to write home about, the same flavorless mush he’d eaten twice before, but he eats it, slow and calm even though he’d rather be done with it quick than savor it._

_He briefly thinks it’d be far easier to eat if he had wine to wash it down with._

_But eating slowly, poring over the food and trying to see what ingredients have been used passes the time. Today’s flavor, for example, seems to be something resembling beef stew with only the barest hint of salt._

_It alleviates his boredom, too, at least while there’s still food left on the tray._

_Once he’s done, it’s back to the soul-sucking monotony of the gray cell._

_This is exactly what he imagines going mad must feel like: no need to think, nothing but a muddled awareness of everything around him that feels both dull and sharp at the same time. Strange still hasn’t brought him anything to read, hasn’t been by at all._

_At this point, he’d take the company of that serpent over being alone, if only to see if he can get any information out of him._

_Of course, because the Universe probably hates him at this point for reasons he cannot remember, it’s not Strange himself that shows up along with the guard that takes his tray and plastic utensils away._

_No, that would be far too convenient, and if he’s learned anything about himself in the past day or so, it’s that his life is everything but – instead of who he wants to see, it’s the woman that came by the first time he woke up. She’s brought two guards with her; they see him as a threat, it would seem, but the thought is funny to him. He’s not exactly the type that’s able to physically overpower anyone, at least not without the aid of weapons._

_And he doesn’t have any of those, so he’s as harmless as a fly._

_At least for now._

_She threatens him with sedation if he doesn’t comply with what she tells him to do exactly the moment she tells him to do it, that she’ll enter the cell and take some blood samples and check his heart rate and blood pressure. And most of all, that she can just as easily do all those things while he’s sedated, so, really, it’s his own choice._

_So, he bites his tongue, rolls his eyes when she can’t see, and allows her to draw his blood and measure his blood pressure, doesn’t do anything that might be considered resisting._

_She doesn’t tell him anything about the results, just finishes her work quickly and leaves, locking the door behind her._

_Back to staring at the walls it is, then._

_He hums under his breath, scraps of a melody half-forgotten, and counts the spiders crawling on the ceiling._

***

 

In the afternoon, Strange comes by to fetch him.

Well, not exactly, but Ed does get escorted to Strange’s office by two guards, which he supposes is close enough. The guards grip the exact spots on his arms that are sore from the previous day and he has to bite his tongue to keep from whimpering from the pain.

Pressure on fresh bruises is its own special kind of Hell, it seems.

He files the information away in the back of his mind, just in case.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Nygma,” Strange says when he enters the office. Ms. Peabody is nowhere to be seen. “Please, take a seat.”

Ed complies. It’s not as if he has a choice in the matter, though, considering the two guards who at this point seem to be glued to his arms.

“Thank you, gentlemen. Leave us,” Strange tells the two and the guards exchange a brief look but let him go without argument.

As soon as they’re out the door, Strange opens a dossier on his desk.

“Now, Mr. Nygma. I seem to recall your offer to help us with a certain… _aptenodytes forsteri_. I hope you haven’t changed your mind? It would be such a shame…” he trails off and looks Ed right in the eye.

Sly serpent.

“My offer still stands,” Ed says, ignoring the gleam of amusement behind Strange’s glasses. “That is, if you’re still up for it.”

Strange smiles, teeth gleaming in the daylight filtering through the window. “Without question. But first, tell me, what do you know about the events that led our fine-feathered friend into his current… _predicament_?”

Ed shrugs. “Nothing at all.”

Strange laughs, the sound low and surprisingly menacing. “I sincerely doubt that, but it will have to do. Give him the same answer when the question inevitably comes and I won’t be forced to terminate our current partnership.”

Ed nods his assent. He’d expected nothing less than vague threats, just as he’d anticipated the occasional pauses Strange peppers throughout his words for dramatic effect.

“I’ll assume the same goes for his death,” he says flatly, and if Strange is surprised, he doesn’t show it.

“Of course,” he tells Ed with another smile.

Ed hasn’t met anyone who can make a smile so threatening before, at least not in the way Hugo Strange can. _(a flash of maniacal laughter and green hair, chalk-white skin and a purple suit, a lilting voice and bared teeth and laughter and laughter and laughter flits through his mind, gone before he can register it properly)_

It’s pointedly more unnerving than Jonathan’s cold detachment or Oswald’s rages or the rabid ferocity that crops up in some of the inmates, and pointedly more dangerous.

Not for the first time, a small part of Ed wonders if he made the right decision.

“Can I see him?” he asks eventually, once Strange stops staring at him and starts looking through the dossier again.

“Soon,” Strange says, not looking up from the papers he’s reading. “Ms. Peabody will be here momentarily to escort you.”

Ed’s heartbeat picks up, his mind racing.

He hadn’t expected to be allowed downstairs again so soon, hadn’t really expected to be allowed to see Oswald at all, but it seems the Universe is on his side today. That is, if he can manage to figure out how to approach the situation.

 

***

 

_They move him._

_At least, he thinks they do – he doesn’t remember it, doesn’t see it happening, but one minute he’s napping in his cell and the next, he’s somewhere else._

_The new cell is slightly bigger and better furnished (there’s an actual table with two chairs and it shouldn’t feel like a luxury but it does), even though it’s not that vast of an improvement in terms of color scheme or comfort. The light is also different; there’s still harsh fluorescent lights on the ceiling, but this time, there is also a window, with a view over water and a vast cityscape beyond._

_Warmth floods his chest when he looks at the silhouettes of towering buildings, of bridges and warehouses and municipal structures, all looking like sketches on the backdrop of an overcast sky._

_Home._

_Whatever this city is called, wherever it may be, he belongs to it._

_And it belongs to him._

_The thought hits him like a freight train, making his hands shake as he grips the windowsill, knuckles white._

_He stays there, looking at the city, as the sky grows darker by the minute with an approaching thunderstorm. He can hear the rumble of it in the distance, can almost feel the static crackle in the air even though he’s indoors._

_The cell door opens behind him and he turns._

_The woman from before is back, once again._ _She hasn’t brought the guards with her this time, or at least it seems she hasn’t._

_He’s just about to step forward when she says, “One move out of line and this little visit is over before it’s even started.”_

_He halts and she smirks, turning slightly to motion to someone standing outside his view._

_“You’re up, Mr. Nygma,” she says, stepping back as Ed enters the room. “You’ve got half an hour.”_

_She nudges him further inside and closes the door, locking it behind her._

_He doesn’t know what to say._

_Seemingly, neither does the other._

_“You again,” he says eventually when he’s acknowledged that he can’t think of anything better to say._

_Ed smiles. “Me again, indeed. Do you mind if I sit, Oswald?”_

_He shrugs and the taller man takes a seat at the table, his back to the door and open to attack, should one come. He doubts it will, but keeps an eye on the door anyway, and doesn’t know why he bothers._

_Ed looks at him with wonder in his eyes, as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing, just like he did the first time._

_It’s both mildly flattering and majorly uncomfortable._

_“Why are you here?” he asks when the silence starts leaning on the wrong side of heavy._

_“I… I wanted to see you. To try and help, however I can,” Ed says after a moment of consideration._

_“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” he asks after he’s mulled over the previous answer._

_“Like what?”_

_“Like you’re happy to see me. Like you actually care. Why?”_

_Ed thinks for a moment; selecting the right words, it seems. “We… we were friends, if that’s what you mean, so of course I’m happy to see you.”_

_An acceptable answer, if an unsatisfying one. There must be something more to do the story, something he doesn’t know._

_“I’m guessing you’re not a part of the staff here,” he says and Ed nods._

_“I know about your past. So, I made a deal with them yesterday.”_

_He narrows his eyes at Ed, who immediately splutters and starts explaining, faster than a speeding bullet. “Not like that, I’m not going to hurt you, don’t worry, I just… I offered to help you get your memories back, see,” he says and his eyes are wide behind the glasses, “and they didn’t punish me for breaking into Indian Hill. Well, they haven’t punished me_ yet _, but I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it, I suppose…”_

_Ed trails off and looks expectantly at him, as if hoping he’s able to make sense of the jumble of words that he’s spewed out without much context at all._

***

 

It’s not looking very good.

Ed is floundering, foot lodged firmly in his mouth, and Oswald looks like he’s about to call for the guards any second now.

He doesn’t know what to say, this time around. The first time they’d met in Arkham, there had been a clear-cut problem, something to address directly, and Ed had fared a lot better in garnering Oswald’s attention.

Perhaps…

“You really don’t remember anything? Anything at all?” he asks Oswald.

Oswald scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Obviously. I wouldn’t still be here if I did.”

“Ask me something, then. I’ll tell you what I know,” Ed says, the question whether Oswald can put his pride aside for long enough to accept what Ed is offering buried underneath the words.

He’s half-expecting Oswald to laugh in his face, or ask why he’s there, or any of the rational questions Ed would assume are on his mind, but he doesn’t. Instead, he leans back against the windowsill, gently kneading his injured knee – it must be hurting a lot, then – and asks Ed, his voice quiet, to tell him about his family.

Ed takes a moment to gather his thoughts, to remember what the Oswald he knew had told him during the long, dark nights in his cell when the only light had been the glow from the courtyard, the only warmth gathered from the memories they’d relayed for each other, about far better times than they were in at that moment.

After a while, he starts talking. He tells Oswald, with the man’s own words for the most part, about his mother and how she took care of him and how much she loved him, about their trip to the fair for his birthday and the cooking, everything good he remembers hearing Oswald’s ghost say.

He doesn’t tell him that Oswald’s father died when he was a baby, that his mother was murdered, that Oswald was dead himself for a while, and hopes the other can’t tell he’s hiding something.

And Oswald doesn’t say anything, just watches him with his sharp eyes and listens.

All in all, it takes Ed about ten minutes to relay everything he knows about Oswald’s family, years and years of the other’s life condensed into what seems like an awfully short story. His throat is sore by the time he finishes but he doesn’t even care.

When it’s clear Ed is done speaking, Oswald mulls everything over for a minute or so.

The thunderclouds have moved in across the bay, torrential downpour covering the window of the cell, the only thing visible a wall of water. There’s low rumbling somewhere in the distance, occasional flashes of lightning, but Oswald doesn’t seem to pay attention to what’s happening behind his back.

“How did we meet?” he asks, looking Ed right in the eye.

Ed knows he can’t tell him the real story, about his first night in Arkham and an unexpected cellmate.

“I used to work for the police. You came to the station one day and I approached you. You weren’t exactly happy about it, either,” he says and feels a smile fluttering at the corners of his mouth. “In fact, you were actually kind of rude. You didn’t even like the bit of trivia I told you about penguins and–“

“What did you say?”

“About you being rude? Well, you _were_ , I honestly don’t–“

Oswald waves his hand. “Not _that_ , I don’t care. Penguins?”

Ed’s eyes light up. “Yes, I asked if you knew that male emperor penguins keep their eggs warm by balancing them on their feet. And you pretty much ran off after that. Do you remember?”

Oswald looks pensive. “I… I don’t know. Maybe,” he says eventually and Ed feels like he could cry from joy.

This might work, after all.

“Why penguins, though?” Oswald asks.

Ed laughs, lightly. “Your nickname. They used to call you Penguin.”

Oswald sputters.

Whatever it is he’s about to say is cut short by Ms. Peabody’s arrival to collect Ed.

“See you later,” Ed says and Oswald huffs.

 

***

 

_Glimpses of images flit past behind his closed lids._

_It’s not much to go on, not a lot at all, but he remembers the police station, remembers the bullpen and the people rushing around, the faint noise of traffic outside and the cold._

_He remembers a short conversation and the feeling of irritation._

_But he doesn’t remember Ed._

_Doesn’t remember any of the people he saw, doesn’t remember why he was there or what he was doing._

_Penguin._

_He thinks about it and the name is indeed familiar, even though a part of him is mortified. He doesn’t know why he let anyone call him that, but he supposes he can ask Ed._

_Maybe that’s enough, for now._

_It should be, because he didn’t remember anything at all before, not like this._

_But it doesn’t_ feel _like it’s enough._

_Most of what Ed told him, about his mother and his life, sounds like a story about someone else, about someone else’s life. He doesn’t remember any of it, can’t bring himself to picture it all happening to him._

_It’s hard to try and rebuild an identity based solely on second-hand information, especially if it’s from someone he doesn’t know – he likes Ed well enough, he thinks, certainly better than he likes the personnel in charge of him._

_His instincts warn frantically against placing all of his trust in one person like this, but it’s not like he has a choice. It’s either Ed or Strange, and in Strange’s conspicuous absence, Ed is the far better option, far easier to read and far more pleasant to be around._

_Far better to look at, too, a part of his mind suggests, which he stomps down before he can think about it for too long. It’ll do him no favors to dwell on his feelings, whatever they may be, especially if there’s a far more important battle to fight._

_Eventually, his knee cramps up from standing so he hobbles over to the table and sits, his back to the wall and his leg stretched out, stares at the rain running down the window and wallows in his misery until the storm is over and they bring him dinner._

_He picks at the food, thinks he could use a drink, thinks about memories he can’t remember, a million questions racing through his mind._

_He’s got half a mind to throw the whole tray against the wall, to see the contents splatter against the gray like an abstract painting, to rip apart this tiny cell they’ve stuffed him in and get rid of at least a small amount of the helpless rage he’s feeling._

_After a moment of consideration, he throws the tray against the wall, watches it bounce off with a metallic clang and looks as the mush spilled from the tray slides downwards._

_It’s not as satisfying as he thought it would be._

_But it does make him feel a little bit better._

***

 

Ms. Peabody takes him back to Strange’s office.

The man remains seated at the desk where Ed saw him last, tapping the end of his pen on a dossier. Ed catches only a glimpse, but from what he can see there’s an _AA113_ printed on neat letters in the center of the cover, a small _IH_ on the upper left corner and what looks to be a photograph pinned to the upper right.

Oswald’s file, then.

Interesting.

Strange motions for him to take a seat; he does.

Ms. Peabody hovers near the doorway.

“Thank you, Ethel, that will be all,” Strange says and Ed makes a mental note of the name. Not what he would’ve guessed it to be, but still, it might prove useful.

At some point.

He fights the urge to look over his shoulder as Peabody leaves the room, the door clicking shut behind her. Instead, he keeps his eyes on the dossier on the table.

“It’s his, isn’t it,” Ed says flatly.

Strange smiles. “Interested, are we? I’m afraid it contains confidential information which you’re not authorized to see, no matter how… _helpful_ you may prove yourself to be.”

Ed wants to roll his eyes.

“Why doesn’t he remember?” he asks instead.

“It’s only natural for the mind to… omit the circumstances surrounding a traumatic experience. Our mutual friend is no different. However, his mind seems to have blocked out everything concerning who he is, along with the trauma,” Strange tells him.

As if Ed hadn’t already figured out as much himself.

“You’re proving to be quite useful in the progress of restoring his memories, it seems,” Strange goes on. “As long as you hold up your end of our bargain, our partnership in this matter will continue.”

“And if I don’t?”

Strange smiles wider, eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “I do not need to remind you that both you and our mutual friend are expendable, Mr. Nygma. You more so than him; there are plenty of methods we can try on him if you fail.”

Ed’s stomach turns as he nods.

 

He mulls it over once he’s back in his cell later that night, thinks about Strange’s words.

_You’re proving to be quite useful in the progress of restoring his memories._

_Quite useful._

_Quite._

Ignoring the flash of annoyance deep in his gut – _of course_ he’s useful, he _knows_ he’s useful to them, probably far more than anything or anyone else they could’ve tried – he begins to wonder not about the _how_ of the situation but the _why_.

Why would Strange want Oswald to remember?

If it was Ed running an operation like the resurrections at Indian Hill, he’d much prefer having subjects whose personalities and histories he could rebuild from scratch to suit his purposes – it’s a matter of giving people without histories a story that is beneficial for both them and him.

It would be the logical thing to do, to have the most control over them.

And no matter how much he tries to figure out why Strange wants at least one of his subjects – he has no doubt there are other branches of research happening downstairs, if the monsters he saw are anything to go by – to remember their previous life, he can’t think of a reasonable justification.

Unless…

Unless someone else is pulling the strings.

He’s considered the possibility before – funding for the compound must come from somewhere, after all – but never has it been this obvious, laid out before him like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

More than anything, he wants to assemble it.

Needs to, even.

Because there must be a reason Strange is trying – succeeding now, too, even if imperfectly – to bring people back from the dead, and said reason must be connected to whoever is backing the research.

 _Nobody ever does anything without a motive_ , indeed.

Yet the question remains: why?

Why are they doing this?

Without first figuring out who the mysterious backers are, Ed has little chance of figuring out what is really going on.

To think, only a few weeks ago, he had no idea that any of this was happening, and now he’s ended up far more directly involved than he would’ve ever wanted to be.

But there’s a catch, as he’s come to except: this is no time to go snooping where he shouldn’t. If circumstances were different, if he only had himself to worry about, he might risk it.

Might.

It’s with these restless thoughts that he falls asleep, staring up at the ventilation duct cover in the ceiling.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a certain ~someone~ has his birthday today, so as a little celebratory treat i'm publishing this chapter a bit earlier.  
> this also marks the halfway point in the story and with that comes a certain breaking point, as well as a little change of scenery :)  
> a great big 'thank you' to everyone who's stuck with me bc i could never have gotten this far just on my own!

Oswald is sulking.

It’s been two days since their last visit, and what a hellish two days it’s been – Ed isn’t exactly in a good mood himself, even after Jonathan’s demonstration yesterday of what his… distraction had been the day Ed broke into Indian Hill; poor Livingston is apparently still catatonic.

Not that Ed really cares, but it’s the principle of the thing.

Which, inevitably, brings him back to the situation at hand. Because he’s discovered that Oswald’s bad moods are of the particularly infectious sort: the very air in the cell seems to be thick with barely-repressed rage, stuffy and uncomfortable. Probably part of why Oswald is so cranky in the first place – a classic case of cabin fever.

And there are tracks on the wall of something that looks like solidified gruel, old and dried so tightly to the plaster it may never come off, a testament to both the horrid quality of the food and the building itself. Ed remembers the quivering of the bars in front of the window back in his cell, an outlet for the version of Oswald that couldn’t touch anything without passing through.

Oswald himself is the worst part of the room, if he’s being honest, silently fuming on the bed and barely even looking at Ed who tries to not take it personally – a feat that’s only becoming more difficult by the passing second.

So, he takes a deep breath and reminds himself it’s just like dealing with Oswald back during the first night they met, or like dealing with a particularly ornery cat. One that might bite, if it gets irritated enough.

Still, it’s an occupational hazard, nothing more.

“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong,” he says and Oswald glares at him as if his very presence is offensive to the smaller man.

“Everything is just peachy,” Oswald says, voice dripping with sarcasm, and Ed fights the urge to rub his temples.

“Look, I don’t like being here any more than you do, alright? But sulking about it isn’t going to help either of us.”

Oswald draws in a sharp breath, sets his shoulders and lifts his chin.

 _Oh, angry now, is he,_ Ed thinks. _Good_.

“And what do you, Ed, in your infinite wisdom, think would help?” Oswald asks and Ed smiles, willfully ignoring the insulting pointedness of his tone.

“A breakout plan would be a good place to start, I think.”

Now _that_ gets his attention: Oswald sits up and Ed can pretty much see the cogs in his head already turning, eyes alight with no small degree of mischief.

It’s almost sad that he has to shut it down before Oswald does or says something they’ll both regret.

“Not _escape_ -escape,” Ed says quickly, widening his eyes and begging whatever powerful forces exist in the Universe that Oswald will understand. He has zero doubt that their visits are heavily monitored, and it’s better to be safe than sorry.

The real plan will have to wait.

Oswald deflates slightly, almost imperceptibly. If Ed didn’t know him as well as he does, he wouldn’t be able to see the minute shift in the other’s demeanor. 

Fortunately, he does.

“Humor me,” he says and Oswald looks pensive for a moment before shrugging.

Ed takes that as a _go ahead_.

“I’ve been thinking about what and why you can’t remember,” he explains, “and I think part of the reason it’s hard for you to recall your life before… _this_ , is that you’re in an unfamiliar environment with people you don’t know. Present company excluded, of course.”

“So, what, you’re going to try and convince Strange to let me out?” Oswald laughs humorlessly, the sound reverberating off the walls of the cell. “Good luck with that. I don’t know what he wants from me but I know he won’t let me leave just because _you_ asked.”

“We’ll see about that.”

 

***

 

_Ed must be insane._

_It’s the only explanation that seems any semblance of accurate._

_After all, they’re stuck in a madhouse._

_He thinks about that for a moment, thinks how funny it is that none of them seem to think him missing his memories doesn’t mean he’s stupid. He can hear the screams and moans at night, the blabbering of the truly insane._

_Ed, fortunately, seems to be more of the harmless variety, but one can never know._

_The quiet, calm-seeming ones are usually the most dangerous, after all._

_He’s still not completely sure if he can trust the man, because sometimes it seems too good to be true, the off chance that one of his friends – surely, he must have others beside Ed? – shows up in the same institution he’s locked up in for reasons unknown; he can only suspend his disbelief for so long._

_Then again, Ed did let him know they were being monitored. He’d thought as much himself, of course, considering how prompt the guards usually are in collecting his tray after meals and how both Strange and Peabody seem to show up right as he wakes up._

_It’s good to see that Ed isn’t as clueless as he might seem, though._

_Perhaps he’s not lying, after all. Perhaps they really were friends before whatever happened to him happened._

_“Why are you here?” he asks after the silence in the cell has become thick._

_Ed looks away from the splatter marks he’d been examining on the wall, the dried remains of his outburst a few days back. “I’m here to help you.”_

_Oswald scoffs. “I don’t mean that. Why are you in a madhouse?”_

_If Ed’s surprised, he doesn’t show it. “I killed someone.”_

_A shiver runs down his back. “Who?” he asks, the question short and simple but nevertheless hanging heavy in the air._

_“My girlfriend, Miss Kringle,” Ed replies and he looks so detached, so blasé about it that it might be unnerving._

_“A few others, as well,” Ed adds after a beat._

_He mulls it over and doesn’t ask why he did it – it bears little to no consequence to his person, so it’s not of any concern to him. He’s sure Ed had his reasons, whatever they might have been._

_“Why aren’t you in prison if you’re a convicted murderer?” he asks instead._

_“I was declared criminally insane,” Ed says and again, he’s calm about it, emotionless even, not a hint of a waver in his voice. “That’s why they sent me here, to Arkham.”_

_He considers the answer for a moment, finally having a name for the place they’re confined in. It sounds familiar, but he doesn’t think he’s been here before, even though without his memories, he can’t be sure._

_“But you’re not insane,” he says after a while and Ed shrugs._

_“No more than your average Gothamite.”_

_“That would be…?”_

_“Right, I forgot you don’t remember. Sorry. A citizen of Gotham,” Ed amends and the name sounds so right, so…_

_So beautiful._

_“That’s it across the water there, isn’t it? Home,” he says and Ed nods._

_He gets out of bed to walk over to the window, to look at the reassuring silhouette of the city standing steady against the darkening skyline._

_Ed watches him, brown eyes soft behind the lenses of his glasses. “You’ll get to go there,” he says, voice quiet. “Anywhere you want. I promise.”_

_He swallows the lump in his throat and nods._

***

 

The conversation with Strange goes about as well as he’d expected.

“I’ve thought you to be many things, Mr. Nygma. Delusional has not yet been one of them,” Strange tells him with a benign smile and narrowed eyes. “But I am beginning to reconsider.”

“It would do him a lot of good,” Ed says, trying his best not to sound like he’s pleading even though he absolutely is. “Might help him remember, too.”

Strange doesn’t look convinced.

Yet.

It’s fortunate that Peabody is elsewhere, because without her unrelenting rationality and her whispered words of advice, Strange is far easier to sway. And Ed has a decision to make as to whether to lean on his suspicion that there are people above Strange, pulling his strings, or try a different approach.

After a moment’s consideration, he chooses the former.

“Look, I know your work downstairs is very important, not only from a scientific point of view,” he says and Strange cocks his head. “And I think him regaining his memories would benefit you as well as him, perhaps you more so.”

“I’m assuming you’ll want to accompany him?” Strange says and Ed shrugs.

“If that can be arranged,” he says, careful not to sound too hopeful. “It would certainly help him to have me along.”

Strange looks at him, eyes boring deep within his core as if the man can see every flicker of every thought he’s ever had. It would be unnerving if he hadn’t already experienced a similar sensation under Jonathan’s gaze, so he holds fast, looks Strange straight in the eye with the most innocuous expression he can muster.

More than anything, he wants to get out of the asylum, even if just for a little while. The confinement is slowly starting to get to him, the unbearable monotony of his surroundings becoming more agonizing with each passing day spent within the walls of Arkham. Having Oswald along for the outing is icing on the cake, especially if it might jog his memory.

If he can get Strange to agree, it’s a win-win situation.

“I will consider your offer,” Strange says eventually, lacing his fingers together on top of the desk. “Rest assured, though, Mr. Nygma, that if you fail, you will not be seeing him again. If I were you, I’d consider very carefully whether this little outing you want is worth that risk.”

Ed nods, and doesn’t say that there’s no question whether it’s worth it or not.

 _Fortune favors the bold_ , Oswald had told him a long time ago, and he’s finally starting to believe it.

 

***

 

A week passes by without a word from Strange.

Ed gets to visit Oswald thrice in the meanwhile, each visit peppered with slight tension as they wait. There’s things other than that as well, fortunately, as Oswald has taken to asking about the city every now and then, between questions about the asylum and about Ed himself.

He doesn’t ask about his own life, for reasons Ed can’t begin to fathom.

As days pass by, Oswald’s cell looks more and more unruly, the furniture tossed about by what Ed can only assume are rage-fueled tantrums, because every time he visits, the lighter items in the cell seem to be in different places. There are more food stains adorning the walls as well, an abstract painting in semi-edible slop that the powers-that-be deign to serve to the inmates.

It seems his words about sulking not helping them haven’t had much of an effect – not that Ed really expected them to have any, but it still stings.

They sit quietly for the most part during the last time, and Ed lets himself enjoy it; there’s hardly ever any time for silence in the asylum besides the dead of night and lately he hasn’t been able to stay awake long enough to see the time of night when even the rowdiest of inmates settle down.

 

Strange’s answer finally comes in the form of Ms. Peabody at the end of the week, accompanied by two guards and a sour look.

“I don’t need to remind you of what will happen if you try to escape,” she tells Ed as he’s cuffed and led through the halls of the asylum in the evening.

Faces peek out of the observation windows on cell doors, watching them pass by.

Ed doesn’t say anything to her in return, just tries to quiet the fluttering of his heart and his breathing.

He’s done it.

They’re actually going.

They load him into an inconspicuous town car, one of the guards sitting in the back with him with Peabody in the front along with a driver in civilian clothes.

“Where is he?” Ed asks after it becomes apparent Oswald isn’t coming along.

Peabody doesn’t respond.

 

***

 

_It seems Ed has delivered on his promise, after all._

_Well, at least a part of it, because he’s cuffed and taken outside of the asylum, pushed into the back seat of a car with a guard who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. Strange sits at the front, the ever-present smug smile firmly set on his face._

_“We’re taking a risk with you,” Strange says, looking straight ahead. “Remember that.”_

_“Where are we going?” he asks in between trying to get a good look at the asylum complex behind them._

_“To your mother’s home,” Strange replies, tone perfectly pleasant. “If you don’t want to do that, however, there’s still time to call it quits.”_

_He doesn’t say anything, clenches his hands into fists and sets his shoulders._

***

 

The drive is shorter than he expected, barely half an hour.

They’re in the outskirts of the Narrows, which at least explains what their destination is – if he’s not wrong, and he rarely is, they’re going to Oswald’s mother’s apartment. He’s never been there himself, of course, but he remembers what Oswald had said about it what seems like forever ago, the description of the small but relatively comfortable space still vivid in his mind.

“You get fifteen minutes,” Peabody says, speaking for the first time in a while. “We’ll be monitoring you the whole time, so don’t even think about attempting anything.”

Ed nods and wonders if the woman really does think he’s stupid or if she just likes making vague threats.

The guard leads him upstairs to the apartment where Strange is already waiting, accompanied by Oswald and another guard.

“I presume Ms. Peabody has explained the situation, Mr. Nygma,” Strange says to Ed, hands clasped behind his back.

It never fails to take Ed by surprise how short the man is, even shorter than Oswald – seeing them standing there together with a guard who’s a good head taller than both is almost comical.

Almost.

“Ten minutes, monitored, I know,” Ed says and tries not to let his annoyance slip into his voice; it’s like they think they’re dealing with children with no comprehension of the world around them. The constant repetitions are becoming irritating, to say the least.

“Good,” Strange says. “Remember our deal.”

Ed gives a curt nod in response, and both Strange and the two guards leave the apartment, locking the door. As if a locked door would stop Ed, but he’ll let them hold on to their erroneous beliefs for a little while longer.

He takes a quick look at the clock on the dusty mantelpiece. It reads half past seven and the darkness outside seemed to indicate something similar. It’s hard to tell in the apartment, though, with the curtains drawn and the soft glow of lightbulbs providing the only illumination.

It is a cozy apartment, if a bit dusty – unsurprising, considering its original occupant died months ago, and her son hasn’t been here since, not to mention he hasn’t been able to remember the place’s existence, much less hire anyone to tidy up.

Ed turns his eyes to Oswald, who is standing in the middle of the room with a lost expression.

“So, this is home,” he says, trying to gauge Oswald’s mood.

The man in question doesn’t say anything but takes a few steps towards the sofa with a small end table next to it. There’s a beautifully framed set of photographs on the small table, all of them of Oswald: posed portraits by the look of them, and if the similarity between the photographs and their subject is to be believed, all relatively recent.

Oswald stares at the images of himself, neatly dressed with his hair combed flat instead of the fluffy mess it is currently, and there’s nothing, not even a faint spark of recognition.

“That’s me, isn’t it?” Oswald says, eyes still on the most prominent of the portraits. “Wow.”

Ed doesn’t know what to say.

“I’m sure there are more photographs around here somewhere, if you want to have a look,” he says after a while, and Oswald turns towards him.

He looks so small in the low light, far more fragile than Ed’s ever seen him, hands cuffed in front of him and his frame disappearing beneath the scrubs they’d dressed him in back at the asylum.

“I want to see her,” he says.

“I’ll get you a picture,” Ed tells him. “Why don’t you have a look around while I search?”

Oswald nods curtly, shuffling towards the doors on the opposite end of the living room.

 

***

 

_The apartment smells stale._

_Too much so, as if anyone hasn’t been here in a long time: weeks, if not months._

_He tries very hard not to think about what that might mean about the fate of his mother, the woman he still can’t quite remember except in occasional flashes – whispered words, warm hands, the smell of fresh linen and spices._

_Ed is somewhere back in the living room, going through drawers and looking on bookshelves for photo albums._

_Somehow, he knows the albums won’t be in the living room._

_He says as much to Ed who looks more and more defeated as another minute ticks by._

_He goes to his own bedroom first, muscle memory guiding him to the right door even if his mind doesn’t remember. The room is small but comfortable, a neatly-made twin-sized bed against the back wall with a dresser next to it._

_Most of the space left is taken by a large armoire housing a magnificent collection of clothing: suits in elegant cuts, crisp dress shirts and a selection of waistcoats in dark, rich colors. He runs his hands over the fabric, admiring the clothes – they seem far more comfortable to him than the scrubs he’s clad in now, far better than the cheap, scratchy, disposable excuses for garments._

_The only thing stopping him from dressing up are the cuffs clamped around his wrists._

_If he only had something sharp, something small…_

_There’s a small box on top of the dresser next to the armoire. He walks over to it and opens it, although it’s not the easiest feat with his hands cuffed. He finds a small collection of tie pins within; they’ll do nicely, he thinks._

_Opening the cuffs is a lot easier than he expected it to be. Muscle memory again, he guesses, which doesn’t speak very well for the kind of person he was – even if the framed portraits back in the living room suggest him being an upstanding young man, he has the inclination he was anything but that._

_With his hands free, it’s a lot easier to explore the rest of the room._

_***_

 

It seems like a violation of privacy to be in Oswald’s mother’s room.

Disrespectful, somehow, even though Ed is only there to collect the photo album: he finds it in her nightstand drawer, set there neatly, lovingly. He takes it from its place, careful to disrupt the room as little as possible and offering a silent apology to its owner’s ghost for disturbing her rest, wherever she may be.

He leaves quickly, taking the album back to the living room where he takes a seat on the sofa, setting the album beside him.

It’s a few minutes before the door to Oswald’s room opens and the man himself emerges.

The first thing Ed notices is the lack of cuffs around his wrists. The second thing, although if he’s honest, it was really the first, is that the scrubs he’s used to seeing are gone and in their place, a lovely suit complete with a purple brocade waistcoat and a matching tie.

He’s about to ask how Oswald got the cuffs off when the man raises his hand, a small, glinting object gently held between his fingers.

“I found tie pins,” Oswald says in explanation. “Want to use this one?”

Ed glances at the clock. It’s ten minutes until eight o’clock. Their fifteen minutes is up already and yet, no one has come by to collect them.

So, he shrugs and reaches out. Oswald steps closer and hands the tie pin over before noticing the photo album on the sofa next to Ed’s thigh.

“You found it.”

Ed nods. “Have a look while I take care of the cuffs.”

Oswald takes the album and sits down in the puffy armchair before opening it.

As much as he’d like to keep an eye on Oswald and see whether he recognizes the pictures, Ed keeps his attention on the cuffs. It takes a bit of work, but a little while wiggling the tie pin around in the lock and the cuffs fall off with ease.

 _Strange should really invest in better handcuffs_ , he thinks briefly before finally turning his attention to Oswald who is flipping through the pages of the album with his brow furrowed.

“Anything?” he asks.

Oswald startles ever so slightly. “Maybe. I… I don’t know.”

Ed supposes it’s good enough for now. He stands up and stretches, fully taking in the room they’re in.

It’s both spacious and small at the same time, heavy curtains covering the windows and fine layer of dust on most surfaces. The interior is quaint, if a bit dated, but it’s definitely a space he can see Oswald living in with his mother.

There’s a soft gasp and he turns away from the bookshelf he’d been examining.

Oswald is staring at the album with his mouth slightly open.

“That’s her,” he says, voice shaky. “That’s my mother. I… I recognize her.”

Ed can’t help the beaming smile that sneaks onto his face. “You remember,” he says, more of a statement than a question.

Oswald takes a shaky breath. “Not everything, but… enough to know.”

There’s a burst of warmth deep within Ed’s chest. Perhaps everything isn’t over after all. At least, not just yet.

“She’s dead, isn’t she,” Oswald says calmly and the warmth in Ed’s chest disappears to be replaced by a cold vise around his heart.

“Yes,” he says simply, not daring to try and explain any further.

Oswald is upright in a second and before Ed can even register what’s happening, there’s a small knife at his throat.

Irrationally, he wonders where it came from.

“You lied to me,” Oswald hisses and presses the knife closer to Ed’s skin, near enough to draw blood – he can feel the warm trickle down his neck.

 _The body remembers even when the mind does not_ , he thinks and wants to laugh.

“Only by omission,” Ed admits, because there’s nothing else he can do. “But I had a good reason – I can’t tell you here, not if we’re still being observed… Although considering they gave us fifteen minutes and it’s been almost twice as long, I’m beginning to think we’ve caught a very lucky break indeed.”

The sting of the knife against his neck doesn’t ease.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you where you stand,” Oswald says and his voice is trembling; whether from rage or something else, Ed doesn’t know.

“I can help you, Oswald,” he says and for the first time, it begins to register that he could very well actually die right here. “I can’t make you believe that, but tell me this: I am neither bought nor sold but am more valuable than gold; I am built but not by hand – what am I?”

Oswald frowns at him, the knife moving ever so slightly away from his neck. “Is this… Are you asking me a riddle?”

Ed repeats the riddle.

“The answer is trust,” Oswald says after a while.

Ed smiles. “Correct. I’m asking for yours.”

Oswald frowns at him some more before finally, finally withdrawing the knife with a huff. Ed presses his fingers to his throat for a moment before taking them away: a relatively small amount of blood, indicating a non-lethal cut. It’s nothing some bandages and time can’t fix.

Oswald watches him for a moment longer before going over to the kitchen and opening a cupboard. Taking out a small first-aid kit, he pores over the contents for a moment before getting some bandages and a tiny bottle of hydrogen peroxide, bringing them over to Ed. He hands them over silently and waits while Ed cleans and dresses the wound.

“What now?” he asks once Ed is done.

“We’ll get out of here,” Ed replies and feels the skin on his throat shift uncomfortably – while the cut isn’t deep, it’s long and part of it is over his larynx, which makes speaking too much not the best of ideas.

He has no desire to die because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut after his throat was almost sliced open.

Oswald looks at the bandage and there’s something like regret in his eyes, but he doesn’t apologize. “I’ll pack my things,” he says instead and heads back to his room.

Ed sits down on the sofa and lets the rush of adrenaline pass through his system.

 

***

 

His mother is dead.

He almost killed Ed.

_(His mother is dead.)_

Ed lied to him.

_(His mother is dead.)_

The thoughts bounce around in Oswald’s mind unpleasantly as he packs his things – a change of clothes and the photo album. There isn’t anything else in the apartment that he can’t come back for later, should he need to.

It’s almost funny how the catalyst for helping him solidify his identity was an act of violence, after all the good things from the past failed to prompt anything other than minute details, how having a knife in his hand and at someone’s throat was a far better prompt than anything about his childhood.

He doesn’t remember everything yet, but he remembers enough. He knows his name now, knows his mother’s name, knows what happened to his leg to make him limp, knows why his nickname is Penguin and why he doesn’t hate it, knows this apartment. Most importantly, he knows he’s a killer.

He thinks about the feel of the knife in his hand, how his fingers gripped the handle just so, how he knew the right amount of pressure to apply to make his point but not accidentally slash Ed’s throat.

_(His mother is dead.)_

It’s a curious feeling, knowing who he is – not remembering, but knowing. He turns off the light as he leaves his bedroom, eyes travelling right to Ed, sitting on the sofa and looking mildly shell-shocked.

If he truly is Oswald’s friend as he says…

 _He asked for trust,_ he reminds himself, abandoning his previous train of thought, and walks past the sofa to the kitchenette. He opens a drawer and fetches a small knife, not a folding one like his own but a simple steak knife. It should be good enough, provided that Ed can use it, should need arise.

_(His mother is dead.)_

He hands the knife over silently and Ed’s eyes widen behind the lenses of his glasses.

“Thank… you?” he says and Oswald fights the urge to roll his eyes.

“I thought you said you’d killed people,” he says and Ed frowns.

“I have, it’s just… it’s a steak knife,” he says and eyes the thing like it offends him.

Oswald rolls his eyes. “Be glad it’s not a butter knife. Let’s go.”

_(His mother is dead.)_

Ed stands up, holding the knife tentatively in his hand, and makes his way to the front door. He tries it and finds it locked; turns and backtracks, grabbing the tie pin from the end table before returning to the door.

_(His mother is dead.)_

Within a minute or so, the front door pops open.

“I _do_ have a key,” Oswald says and Ed… blushes? Or looks awkward, but either way, the point still stands.

He peers into the corridor and finds it empty. “It’s clear,” he tells Ed.

Ed offers a small smile. “Let’s get out of here, then.”

_(His mother is dead.)_

 

***

 

To say Ed is uneasy with the current development of events would be an understatement.

He clutches the steak knife in his hand as they make their way down the stairs, through the dimly-lit hallways to the back of the house, Oswald walking ahead with all the confidence of someone who knows where he’s going.

He supposes it’s easier to get away for Oswald, whose absence can’t exactly be proven; he doubts the other is listed in any official documents as an inmate. Himself, however…

He needs new clothes and fast – wandering the streets in an Arkham inmate uniform isn’t exactly the best of ideas, even if it seems like nobody is after them right now. And they need to get away from here as quickly as possible – he has no idea why the Arkham staff have left them behind, but there’s no guarantee they won’t be back.

He says as much to Oswald, who eyes the striped outfit with distaste and nods before opening a side door leading into the alleyway behind the building.

“Wait here,” he says and tucks the knife in his pocket before walking off; in pursuit of what, Ed doesn’t know.

 _Great_ , Ed thinks, tightening his grip on the steak knife. He’s alone in an unfamiliar environment without a plan and with his friend who almost killed him not five minutes ago.

The good thing is, he supposes, that he isn’t in the worst part of the Narrows. Unfortunately, it’s the only good thing in the situation, because even in the outskirts of the neighborhood, he’s alone, slightly injured, and barely armed in exactly the type of skeevy alleyway where one gets mugged and left bleeding out on the pavement.

Unless Oswald kills him first.

He touches the bandage on his neck and huffs a small laugh.

The thought isn’t an appealing one, exactly, but it would still be better than death at the hands of a random stranger – at least then his death would mean something.

Maybe.

A few minutes pass by and with them comes creeping fear. The more time he spends alone the more the idea that Oswald has made his escape and left him behind sets in, constricting his breathing and setting his mind abuzz with more and more elaborate scenarios, all of them culminating in him getting killed or, worse, getting dragged back to the cesspit of misery called Arkham Asylum.

He mulls over the possibilities until deliverance shows up in the form of Oswald, carrying an armful of clothes which he tosses over to Ed.

“The best I could do on short notice. I’ll go get us a car,” he says nonchalantly before turning to leave again. “Come out of the alley when you’re done.”

Ed wants to kick himself – he’d asked for Oswald’s trust but had none for him when the tables were turned. He’s thought himself to be many things, but a hypocrite is rarely one of them.

So, he retreats into the building for a semblance of privacy, puts down his steak knife. He changes quickly, stripping out of the striped uniform and pulling on the lumpy sweater and baggy sweatpants Oswald had gotten him before picking the knife back up again.

It’s not exactly the best look, sure, but still, it’s far better than the Arkham attire.

He’d like better shoes as well, but that will have to wait.

He leaves the building for the second time and chucks the discarded uniform into a nearby dumpster before walking out of the alleyway onto the main street where there’s a car idling with Oswald sitting at the wheel.

“Where are we going?” Ed asks as he climbs into the passenger seat.

Oswald smiles. “To see an old friend.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took a bit longer to write than i was expecting it to (probably because of the ellipses... insidious little buggers) but hey: they're out in the wild now! the city better watch out.
> 
> quick warning for a small panic attack type thing in the third scene of this chapter - let's just say it's been a very overwhelming day.

The drive is quiet at first.

Oswald makes a sharp right turn and Ed sends out a quick prayer to whatever forces govern the Universe – not for the first time during the drive – that they don’t hit anything.

Or any _one_.

While he can admit he’s not exactly the most cautious driver himself, Oswald really takes the phrase _reckless driver_ to another level. And he notices Ed’s discomfort – how could he not, when Ed is certain his eyes are bugging out and his heart is beating at twice the normal rate, his hands gripping the dashboard like a lifeline.

“Relax, will you?” Oswald says after taking another sharp right.

“Do you even have a driver’s license?” Ed says, his tone more terse than usual to cover up his unease.

Oswald scoffs and doesn’t answer the question.

“Good heavens,” Ed mumbles under his breath, closing his eyes and taking deep, calming breaths.

If Oswald heard him, he doesn’t say anything about it: instead, he tells Ed they have twenty minutes left to go and if Ed intends to emerge from the car alive at their destination, he had better start explaining why he lied.

Ed has the urge to insist he hadn’t _lied_ , had just kept certain facts to himself and fully intended to share them once the opportunity presented itself, but sees the firm set of Oswald’s jaw and the coldness in his eyes and figures it’s not worth fighting over, at least not when they’re in a moving vehicle.

So, he tells Oswald about how he ended up at the asylum after he got caught, relays what he knows about Oswald’s mother’s death, about Strange making monsters and resurrecting people in the basement of Arkham Asylum, how Oswald himself is one of them.

And after some consideration, he admits he only met Oswald once before the other died – that their second first meeting was within the walls of Arkham, a week or so before their third, and oh how he wants to laugh, because they’ve met for the first time three times now and he hopes there will be no more first meetings after this.

“So, that’s the truth. As far as I know, that is,” Ed finishes.

Oswald doesn’t say anything, keeping his eyes on the road and making turns every now and then to reach whatever their destination is.

“Well?” Ed asks when it becomes apparent Oswald isn’t going to break the silence.

“You want to know if I believe you,” Oswald says, turning his head slightly to glance at Ed, more a statement than a question. “I don’t know. Yet.”

Ed nods, doing his best to hide his disappointment. “It’s a lot to take in, I know.”

“There’s just one more thing,” Oswald says after a while, once they seem to be nearing their destination because the car is finally, blissfully, slowing down to a more appropriate speed for urban traffic. “Promise me something.”

“Anything,” Ed says without thinking.

“Never lie to me again,” Oswald says, his voice quiet but harsh. He stops the car in front of a row of small, decrepit-looking warehouses before looking at Ed properly for the first time in half an hour.

Ed swallows the lump in his throat.

“I promise,” he says, but it feels hollow.

 

***

 

Oswald is hinging his bets on Zsasz being home.

There’s no one else he can go to – Jim Gordon is eliminated by the virtue of Ed being with him and by him being a cop; he doesn’t know where any of his old crew are or if any of them are even still alive, let alone available; he doesn’t want to know which rock Butch Gilzean has crawled under in his absence, the filthy traitor.

That leaves only Zsasz as a possible ally, and they desperately need one – and who better than a professional hitman he vaguely remembers being friends with? Besides, he has several prospects for jobs that Zsasz is sure to have fun with, so their alliance will prove to be a win-win situation for everyone.

Well, probably not for the people said jobs concern, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

He glances at Ed walking beside him and a part of him wonders if he should’ve killed Ed back at the apartment: it would’ve certainly made things easier, leaving him to fend for himself and for himself only, and the thought lingers at the back of his mind.

Another part of him, however, is revolted at the thought – after everything they’ve been through, it wouldn’t be a fitting end for someone who has helped him get back on his feet. And it’s not like he’s made decisions to make life easier for himself in the past, so it’s not even surprising he’s letting Ed live.

At least he thinks so.

Still, there’s no time to spend stuck in the past when the immediate future is much more concerning. He’ll have time to think about his choices – smart or stupid, there’s no telling yet – later. What needs to be done right now is getting off the streets and somewhere he can plan the next move.

So, he leads Ed to a sheet metal gate nestled in-between two warehouses a block or so away and presses the call button.

“Zsasz, it’s Penguin. Open up.”

He waits a beat and when nothing happens, closes his eyes, takes a calming breath and grits his teeth. “Please.”

The gate buzzes open and Oswald ushers his companion into the courtyard.

Zsasz is waiting by the front door of his converted warehouse, dressed in his customary black gear and armed to the teeth.

“I thought you were dead,” he tells Oswald matter-of-factly, crossing his arms and frowning – at least Oswald assumes he’s frowning. It’s kind of hard to tell with Zsasz.

“I was for a while,” Oswald replies. “I got better.”

Zsasz smiles. “It’s good to see you, man. I was just about to head out, actually, but–”

Ed clears his throat and Zsasz’s gaze turns somewhere above Oswald’s shoulder.

He’ll have to talk to Ed about the hovering; it’s getting ridiculous.

“Who’s this guy?” Zsasz asks, narrowing his eyes and moving his hand ever so slightly toward one of the guns holstered on his hip.

“No one you need to worry about. Ed, this is Victor Zsasz. Zsasz, this is Ed,” Oswald says, glancing back at Ed to motion him forward.

Zsasz narrows his eyes even further. “I’ve seen you before.”

Ed lets out a laugh with a tiny, almost imperceptible hint of nervousness in it. “I used to work for the police. Not anymore, though.”

Zsasz nods knowingly. “They have terrible employee benefits.”

Ed frowns at the comment as Zsasz approaches and shakes his hand. Oswald fights the laughter rising in his throat.

“Listen, Zsasz,” he says, allowing Ed a little break to gather his thoughts. “Can we stay here for the night? I have a few jobs to offer you, if you’d like. I know how much you love getting more tally marks.”

Zsasz grins, obviously thrilled at the prospect.

How predictable.

“ _Mi casa es su casa_ and all that,” Zsasz tells them and steps aside to let them enter the building.

 

***

 

If Ed ever needed to imagine what a professional hitman’s house looked like, in some ways it would look exactly like the house Victor Zsasz lives in: firearms and ammo on every available flat surface, with the little remaining housing an impressive collection of knives. There are swords, too, lovingly set on neat rows along the walls, and what looks like a bazooka leaning against the black leather sofa.

But there’s also bright neon lights, painting the interior of the house an array of different, pulsing shades, and colorful artwork adorning what little wall space is left from the sword collection. There are flowers, too, bright sunflowers – _Helianthus annuus_ –  and spotted orange lilies – _Lilium lancifolium_ – and what look like red daisies, most likely a variation of _Gerbera jamesonii_.

Briefly, Ed wonders how Zsasz manages to live here and not have a constant migraine.

Oswald doesn’t seem bothered in the least by the lackluster space they’re standing in. He’s probably been here before, if his lack of reaction is anything to go by.

Zsasz disappears through an open doorway into the kitchen. “You guys want anything to eat?” he shouts. “I made spaghetti earlier when the girls came by, there’s still some left. Or you can make yourself sandwiches.”

“Spaghetti is fine, thank you,” Oswald shouts back, voice echoing through the large living room. “You got anything to drink?”

“Yeah, I think so! Hang on…” Zsasz replies. The sound of cabinet doors being opened and closed, followed by the fridge opening follows and it’s such a ridiculous situation Ed can’t help the giggle that escapes from his throat.

Oswald turns to look at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” Ed says, desperately trying to hold back laughter. “It’s just… I could’ve died several times tonight, and now I’m standing in the living room of a killer-for-hire, waiting for him to heat up leftovers.”

Oswald cocks his head and looks at Ed, which makes holding back his laughter impossible.

Ed bursts out laughing, shock and stress from the past two hours finally catching up to him and culminating in hysterical laughter that threatens tears to spill from his eyes.

“Did you know that pasta didn’t even originate in Italy? The Chinese had pasta thousands of years earlier but everyone still thinks it’s the Italians that came up with it,” he pauses to laugh before continuing, the words spilling from his lips quicker than he can think, leaving him breathless. “I get passed among men and build without growing, I serve to injure from a source unknowing – what am I?”

“Hey,” Oswald says and when Ed won’t stop laughing, breathless and shaky, repeating the riddle, he says the word more forcefully.

“Ed, stop. It’s okay, no one will think to look for either of us here. We’ll figure everything out tomorrow, okay? Please calm down,” he tells Ed before turning back towards the open kitchen door and calling for Zsasz to get out a glass of water, a spoon, and some sugar while he’s at it.

“Go the dining room,” Zsasz shouts back. “I’ll be with you in a sec.”

There’s the telltale beep of a microwave timer being set and the sound of dishes clattering as Oswald takes hold of Ed’s sweater sleeve and tugs him away from the loud, overwhelming brightness of the living room.

The décor is much more muted in the dining room, Ed notes through the small, hiccup-y giggles that escape his mouth every now and then as he’s led to take a seat at the sleek, round metal-and-glass table. There’s still flowers, but they’re not overpowered by neon lights, just a small selection of sweet-smelling peonies – _Paeonia lactiflora_ – and lilac blossoms – _Syringa vulgaris_ – in a small crystalline vase in the middle of the table.

Ed keeps his eyes on the flowers as he sits down, bursts of helpless laughter still escaping from his mouth every now and then. Oswald looks at him for a moment before releasing his hold on Ed’s sweater sleeve.

“I’ll be right back, okay? Stay here,” he tells Ed and makes his way to the kitchen where there’s a clatter of empty bottles being knocked over and the sounds of a muted conversation between the two men.

About a minute later, Oswald re-emerges, holding a glass of water.

“Zsasz doesn’t own a kettle to boil water for tea – apparently, he refuses to drink _leaf water_ ,” Oswald rolls his eyes before offering Ed the glass. “So this will have to do.”

Ed accepts it, but has to set the glass down on the table since his hands won’t seem to stop shaking. “What is it?”

“An old childhood favorite, if memory serves. Mother used to give it to me when I was upset as a child – it’s just a few teaspoons of table sugar stirred into a glass of water. A dirt-cheap and convenient remedy for distress, really,” Oswald explains. “Drink it. You’ll feel better.”

Ed complies, trying his best not to spill the water everywhere when his hand shakes as he lifts the glass. He drinks the water – it is sweet, but not unpleasantly so – and sets the glass back down on the table once it’s empty.

“Thank you,” he tells Oswald, the words muddled by the lump in his throat. He is feeling better, surprisingly, even if his rational mind tells him it’s just from the sugary drink triggering the release of serotonin.

Somehow, it doesn’t feel like it’s just that.

Oswald is about to say something but stops himself as Zsasz enters the room, skillfully carrying two large plates of steaming-hot spaghetti and a large, full bottle of wine at the same time.

 

***

 

Zsasz sets the bottle down first.

“Best I could do right now. It’s ruby port,” he says quickly before Oswald can ask. “No need to get snappy. I know what you like, boss.”

Oswald himself hadn’t, but it’s nice to have another piece of the puzzle that is his identity.

“Some glasses and cutlery would be nice, too, Zsasz,” he says.

Zsasz smacks his hand to his forehead. “Duh! Be right back,” he replies, setting the plates on the table before dashing back to the kitchen.

“Aren’t you going to sit, Oswald?” Ed asks, voice still slightly shaky.

 _It’s like corralling cats_ , Oswald thinks before taking a seat across the table from Ed in reply to the question. _Actually, speaking of cats…_

Exhaustion catches up with him once he’s no longer standing, the events of the evening finally registering the second he realizes they’re finally safe.

Well, relatively safe, but Zsasz has been perfectly pleasant for now, so Oswald’s no more worried than is customary to be in the man’s presence.

He has to start thinking of a way out of the mess they’re in, though. It’s in no way certain that Strange won’t come after them, even if Ed is the one that’s most likely in more danger – a fact which has occurred to the man himself, considering his mini-breakdown mere moments before – and Oswald feels strangely protective.

It’s an unfamiliar feeling and not entirely unpleasant; after all, Ed had helped him without expecting much in return.

It’s only fair to return the favor.

Which, of course, makes him think about Ed’s motivations.

The fact Ed’s been risking his personal wellbeing for his sake is something that’s both flattering and uncomfortable in equal measure, especially now that he hasn’t given much anything back at all other than vague threats and personal injury.

He’s allowed himself to forget how dangerous it is to let his guard down.

There’s the telltale clattering in the kitchen that speaks of Zsasz looking for – and failing to locate – the crystal wine glasses he’d nicked from his family home before the bank swooped in to take everything.

Ed looks towards the kitchen, eyes wide, hands nervously clenching and unclenching.

The man obviously needs a distraction.

“Why did you help me?” Oswald asks and Ed’s gaze turns to him.

At the look of confusion, Oswald elaborates. “Back at the asylum. You could’ve left well enough alone, but you didn’t. Why?”

Ed studies his face for a moment before perking up. “I am more precious than gold, but I cannot be bought, can never be sold, only earned if I am sought; if I’m broken I can still can be mended, at birth I cannot start nor by death can I be ended. What am I?”

“A riddle? Again?”

“Do you give up?” Ed asks, the ghost of a smile in the corners of his mouth.

“Ed…”

“The answer is friendship. You told me yourself, once: nobody does anything without a motive. If you must know what mine is, it’s that,” Ed says, and there’s a burst of warmth somewhere behind Oswald’s ribs.

“You asked me the same question once before,” Ed continues, smiling fully now, “back when you were still… physically out of commission, so to speak.”

“What was your answer then?” Oswald asks, heartbeat fluttering in his chest for reasons he can’t quite fathom. A part of his brain screams warnings at him, shouts _danger danger danger_ but he finds himself ignoring it.

“I said I helped you because I wanted to, and that’s still the truth,” Ed says, voice soft. “I used to think that our friendship was doomed from the start – I had no idea how long you’d stick around for, and you were dead so it wasn’t a partnership on equal standing at all, but now…”

He doesn’t get the chance to finish the thought, because Zsasz exhibits some incredible timing and blunders into the dining room holding two glasses – the crystal ones, of course – and two sets of cutlery.

“Finally found them in a box at the back of the counter drawer. Whoda thunk?” he says with a bright smile, oblivious to the fact Oswald is staring at him with murder in his eyes. A glance in Ed’s direction reveals the same expression, although Ed is much quicker to mask it with a pleasant, if strained, smile.

“They’re lovely,” Ed says and Zsasz beams.

“Family heirloom. One of the few things I managed to snatch from the estate before foreclosure,” he says, setting them down on the table. “You need anything else, boss?”

Oswald shakes his head. “Thank you, we’ll take it from here.”

Zsasz shrugs. “Suit yourselves. I’ll be heading out, got stuff to take care of. You know how it goes,” he says, stealing a quick glance at Ed.

“Try to get a word out to Cat that I’m looking for her, if you’d be so kind,” Oswald says as Zsasz picks out a few more weapons to bring along with him. As if he doesn’t already have more than enough – still, far be it for Oswald to comment on the decisions of a man armed with knives and guns when he himself has nothing but a small pocket knife and a tie pin.

Zsasz gives a small salute. “Will do, boss. If I can find her, that is.”

Oswald shrugs.

Ed has been suspiciously quiet, staring at the plate of spaghetti in front of him like it’s a revelation from the angels. It’s not even very surprising considering how abysmal the food at Arkham had been – and Ed spent a lot longer there than Oswald. He can’t imagine what it must feel like to see real food.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Zsasz shouts from the living room, yanking Oswald out of his thoughts.

“Have a good night, Victor,” Oswald yells back, determined to ignore the blush creeping onto his cheeks.

There’s the sound of barking laughter before finally, blissfully, the front door shuts behind Zsasz and they’re left alone.

 

***

 

The first bite of spaghetti is, for the lack of a better word, magical.

The rush of flavor against the backdrop of over a month of the slop Ed had gotten at Arkham is almost overwhelming, even if the pasta dish itself is simple and uninspiring – but it’s warm and has flavor, things he’s learned to stop expecting from his food.

And it’s hard to pay attention to anything other than the food in front of him until it’s gone; only then does he notice the bottle of wine and crystal glasses on the table, as well as the expression on Oswald’s face, part curiosity and part understanding.

The glass in front of him is half-empty, the mostly empty bottle a testament to how much wine he’s had while Ed has been busy inhaling the food. Oswald has taken his time, it seems, approaching the meal with less of the ferocity of a starved man that Ed had and more with a sensible elegance usually reserved for royalty.

Ed takes a sip of the wine. It’s rich and sweet, perfect as a dessert wine but lacking the acidity that would complement the richness of the pasta. Still, considering it’s the best Zsasz could do on short notice, it’s nothing short of impressive.

He says as much to Oswald, whose eyes widen in surprise.

“I never took you for a wine expert,” he says and Ed shrugs.

“I like wine well enough – mostly since the reasons certain varieties fit better with certain foods boil down to simple chemistry. By extension, I like cooking since it’s methodical, almost like mathematics,” Ed tells him and he can see Oswald doesn’t understand what he means.

“I’ve never thought of it that way,” Oswald says eventually and Ed smiles.

“The world is rational, for the most part. It’s just a matter of approaching things with rationality that causes problems for most people.”

Oswald takes a sip of the wine, neglecting the food. “But _should_ everything be approached with rationality?”

A fair question, and one Ed isn’t sure he can answer – not anymore.

“I mean,” Oswald continues, “the choices you’ve been making lately – at least as far as my person is concerned – aren’t all that rational. Is it _rational_ to risk your life for someone who doesn’t even know who you are?”

When Ed doesn’t have an answer, Oswald takes another sip of the wine.

“All I’m saying is, for someone who seems to value rationality and logic as much as you do, Ed, you don’t exactly seem to be practicing what you preach.”

There’s a tiny tendril of anger weaving its way towards Ed’s heart.

“Maybe you should consider being more rational yourself, Oswald,” he says, voice venomous.

Oswald smiles. Well, bares his teeth, more like. “Nice to see you finally show some backbone.”

Ed bristles; he knows Oswald is right, knows he hasn’t been nearly as rational as he’d like to be, knows he’s having trouble figuring out who he wants to be – or maybe not who he _wants_ to be but more who he _knows_ he is, somewhere deep in his core.

The problem, of course, lies in the fact that for all that they don’t really know each other that well, Oswald seems to see right through him, to be able to pick apart his weaknesses and latch onto whichever one suits his fancy to…

To do what?

“Why are you trying to pick a fight?” he asks, looking Oswald right in the eye.

Oswald’s smile disappears.

“I’m not going anywhere until you ask me to leave,” Ed says, taking a guess at the root of the problem. “I’m still here because I _want_ to be, because I _chose_ to stay with you. I keep saying it but you don’t seem to be listening. Can’t you just accept it?”

Oswald’s hand moves ever so slightly closer to the table knife; it seems Ed was right after all. At the very least, he’s hit a nerve – and isn’t that what this is all about? Pushing buttons to see who breaks first? Testing the limits?

“I can’t be _him_ , no matter how much you want me to be,” Oswald says eventually, pouring the last of the wine into his glass. “You’re not _my_ friend, you were _his_. And I’m not him. Can’t you accept _that_?”

They’re quiet for a moment, waging a wordless battle over the dinner table. Ed can’t help but think about the weapons littering the living room just a few steps from where he’s sitting – Zsasz’s table knives are nowhere near as dangerous as most of the items there.

Not that he’d use one, of course, but the way Oswald is staring at him, pale eyes narrowed and mouth set in a firm line, right hand hovering near his knife while the other grips the slender stem of his wine glass…

Something roils in the pit of Ed’s stomach – good or bad, he doesn’t know.

As much as it hurts to admit, Oswald is right: whoever he is now, whoever he will be, he won’t be the version of himself that Ed first met at the asylum.

And maybe that’s okay.

“I’m in your hand but you don’t hold me. After some time, you will know me. What am I?” he asks.

“Seriously?” Oswald says with a huff.

Ed repeats the riddle.

“It’s fate,” Oswald says eventually, taking a sip of his wine, finally deigning to play along.

“Do you believe in fate?” Ed asks, pushing his empty plate out of the way to lace his fingers together on the table.

Oswald smiles, more a quirk of the mouth than a real smile. “Do you?”

“Rationally? No. But it seems rationality might not be the best approach,” Ed says, emphasizing the _might_ – he can concede as much, but no more.

Oswald doesn’t say anything, just looks at him, his head cocked slightly.

Ed doesn’t really know what to think of it, except feel relieved that he won’t get stabbed just yet.

Probably.

The tension drains out of the room ever so slowly, leaving nothing but exhaustion in its wake. After a minute, Ed clears his throat; the cut on his neck stings.

“I think it’s time for sleep, don’t you?” Ed says, downing what’s left of the wine in his glass in one gulp and fighting the urge to yawn. “We’ve got a long day ahead of us tomorrow,” he adds, almost as an afterthought.

Oswald nods after a moment. “The guest bedroom is upstairs; there’s an en-suite as well, so you can have a shower. If you like.”

He probably should.

“What about you?” Ed says, furrowing his brow.

“I’ll be fine,” Oswald replies, waving his hand dismissively. “I’ve got some business to take care of, reassert myself in the community, so to speak. You should get some rest.”

Ed shrugs. Far be it for him to start teaching Oswald how to live his life, even though a part of him wants to argue that if only one of them deserves rest, it’s Oswald and not him.

“See you in the morning, then,” he says, rising from the table.

Oswald raises his half-empty glass in a toast.

 

***

 

As soon as he hears the shower turn on upstairs, Oswald heads to the kitchen for the burner phone graciously left on the counter next to the fridge. He calls Zsasz, telling him to get rid of the car and arranging the delivery of a few items he’d neglected to request before Zsasz left – new clothes for his companion and weapons for himself, mostly, but he needs information, as well.

After all, doing what needs to be done and going after Galavan will be difficult if they are wanted men, especially if the plan is to pulverize the mayor. Perhaps it shouldn’t be his priority, appearing before the man that killed him as a cold-eyed Lazarus, but there’s little room for anything else in his mind, now that he knows what happened to him.

What happened to his mother.

And who made it happen.

Because much like Lazarus, he’d reemerged from death incomplete – but as time went by and his memories returned, it’s become clear where to lay the blame, where to find the one responsible for everything.

Galavan took everything from him and for that, he has to pay.

The slow, roiling hatred deep in his gut is quite possibly the most beautiful thing he’s ever felt, far more reminiscent of his old self than anything else so far. But there’s no real way to be certain: while Zsasz hadn’t noticed anything amiss, the man isn’t exactly the most perceptive of his employees.

The word _employees_ brings to mind the question of money. He’s been gone for a while from what he can piece together, long enough that most of his more public assets have most likely been seized by the police or divided amongst his subordinates. And the cherry on the cake is he doesn’t remember how to contact his accountants. If he doesn’t know what’s left of his empire, he can’t rally his troops.

If he’s got any left, that is.

Rebuilding will be difficult, that much he knows. But he’s never been a quitter, and holding the city in the palm of his hand is one of his most treasured memories – in part because it’s one of the few things he can remember clearly. And if he can’t have his old life back fully, he’ll just take the parts that remain available.

Something is always better than nothing.

Right?

 

***

 

_He’s back in Arkham, in the visitation room he’s never–_

_He’s been here before._

_Mr. Penguin – well, Oswald, as he keeps insisting – sits across from him._

_A small, gift-wrapped box sits on the table between them._

_Oswald motions for him to open the gift, electricity crackling between his fingers._

_It’s a puzzle box._

_He solves the puzzle box in twenty seconds, Oswald’s words buzzing in the air around them like insects, landing on the table, on the window, on the stone walls._

_There’s a heart in the box, pulsing and bloody._

_Oswald smiles._

_He picks up the heart, holds it gently in his hands._

_Oswald says something else, the words dripping from his mouth like black mud, sticky and dense. They stain his mouth, his chin, trickle down the front of his clothes._

_There’s a pain in his chest. He looks down and sees the shirt he’s wearing is ripped open, the frayed edges dark with soot and curling. Where he’d expect to see skin, there’s nothing but a black void._

_He looks at Oswald, opens his mouth._

_No words come out._

You can have it back _, Oswald says, frost creeping along his face._

_The scene changes._

_He doesn’t know where he is – it’s a club, he thinks, but it’s hard to tell. The edges are blurry on everything, turning what he assumes to be everyday items into something impossible to identify._

_It’s freezing in there, ice creeping along every discernible surface: the windows are open, he thinks. Wintery air floods the room, bringing a barrage of snowflakes with it._

_As cold as it is, it’s beautiful, too – the chandelier above his head is ornately carved, the walls a mixture of swirling darkness highlighted in navy blue. There’s purple, too, details on the upholstery of the booths and on the curtains framing the stage._

_But it all looks abandoned, half-empty glasses on the tables and spilled wine bottles on the floor, their contents frozen._

_It feels like his ribcage is being torn in half._

_He gasps, his breath visible in the frosty air._

_After that, nothing._

Ed wakes up.

It takes him a minute to remember where he is.

A quick glance out the window – unbarred, thankfully, he’s almost forgotten what that looked like – reveals it’s a little while past sunrise. He can hear sounds from downstairs, the clatter of dishes and the sound of the microwave beeping accompanied by hushed voices.

So, he gets out of bed, rubs his eyes and puts on his glasses, thinking that if anything, he’s even more tired now than he was when he went to bed. Now that he can see again, he notices a set of clothes laid out for him on the futon: similar to the clothes he’s already wearing, but he can tell they’ll fit him far better.

He changes clothes quickly, noting that he was right. The new ones fit perfectly – far better than any of the clothes he owned before he was incarcerated, not to mention the inmate uniform or the stolen things from last night.

The sweater is a pleasant, dark green, the material soft as a whisper, and the trousers are far superior to the sweatpants from before. He feels a little bit more like himself now that he’s dressed in clothes that actually fit him – it seemed a bit shallow at first, but he thinks he’s starting to understand Oswald’s obsession with being dressed properly.

Oswald.

Right.

He makes his way downstairs, to the living room, which looks marginally better in the little early morning light that manages to sneak in through the small windows. There’s still plenty of weapons littered around and the neon lights on the wall thrum to a rhythm he can’t hear, but there’s a muted quality to it: what was unnerving in the dead of night has become almost charming.

 _Almost_ being the operative word.

He’s quietly moving towards the dining room when someone taps his shoulder. He turns around and sees nothing at his eye level. Looking a bit lower reveals a shock of dirty-blonde curls, attached to the head of a teenage girl in worn clothes.

“Street trash girl?” Ed says, surprised.

She looks at him for a moment, eyes narrowing. “Forensic guy?” she asks in return, mocking his surprise.

Or perhaps she’s not mocking, considering the way her eyes are widening.

“Didn’t they put you in Arkham for killing those people?” she asks him, cocking her head.

“Didn’t they send you upstate?” he asks in return, even though it’s a weak response. He’s not even sure if that’s happened recently, but it seems likely.

“It didn’t take,” she says, shrugging. “You?”

Ed smiles. “It didn’t take.”

Selina huffs. “Nice outfit,” she says after a moment of silence.

“What are you doing here?” Ed asks.

“What are _you_ doing here?” she parrots, crossing her arms.

He’s about to answer that it’s none of her business when Oswald speaks from somewhere behind him.

“Selina,” he says, and both Ed and the girl turn to the doorway of the dining room. “Nice of you to show up.”

“I thought you were dead,” Selina tells him, much the same way Zsasz had done hours prior. It’s not a lot, but there seems to be a hint of relief in her voice.

“I got better,” Oswald says, glancing briefly at Ed with a smile. “But it’s nothing to write home about. I’d appreciate it if you could keep mum on this, if you don’t mind.”

“You owe me money for the last time,” Selina says, crossing her arms. She’s about the same height as Oswald, so it works perhaps marginally better than it would on anyone else, but it’s still very much a child facing off with an adult.

Oswald rolls his eyes. “I’ll pay you half now and the other half and then some later, if you do some work for me.”

Selina deliberates for a minute. “Fine. But I want to know where you’ve been and what he–“ she gestures towards Ed, “is doing here.”

“If you tell us what’s happened in the city while I was gone in return, then sure, we’ve got a deal,” Oswald says, stepping out of the way to allow them into the dining room.

“Where’s Zsasz?” Ed asks once Selina has slunk off to the dining room, leaving them (relatively) alone.

“He’s downstairs, taking care of business,” Oswald says and a stifled scream drifts up from the staircase leading to the basement.

“Right,” Ed says, unsure of how to respond. This is a side of the criminal world he’s not at all familiar with – killing he’s intimately familiar with, but organized crime seems to be on a whole other level. Still, he must face the reality of the life he’s chosen for himself sooner or later, and the quicker he does it, the better.

“It’s his home, he can do whatever he wants here,” Oswald says when he notices Ed’s expression, mistaking it for discomfort.

“Oh, absolutely. I just didn’t expect him to have a torture dungeon right under his house,” Ed says, shrugging. “It seems like a security risk.”

Oswald laughs softly, the sound reverberating off the walls and lightening the gloom of the space.

“Thank you for the clothes,” Ed says after a moment.

“I had to guess the sizes but they seem to fit okay,” Oswald says, glancing at the outfit. “You should see a tailor sometime, though.”

Ed’s about to reply when Selina sticks her head out of the dining room.

“Time is money, people,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I’ve got places to be and people to see. Can we get on with whatever this is already?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the sugar water thing actually has a basis in reality, by the way. shoutout to my mum for being a resourceful poor person when i was growing up! :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long wait, i finally bought arkham knight last week and i've been... far more immersed in it than i expected to be.  
> but i digress.  
> it's been a Journey trying to figure out how to change the genesis of riddler to something a bit more to my tastes without losing the core idea it had in the show, and i think this chapter truly is the starting point for that. for both of their super-villain identities, really.

He hopes the others won’t notice the dark circles under his eyes, although judging from the way Ed keeps glancing over, it’s clear said hope is in vain.

It had been a long night – trying to formulate at least a semblance of a plan of action proved to be far more difficult than he’d thought it would be, especially under the circumstances. That had been his first mistake; his second had been trying to go it alone.

He doesn’t delude himself in thinking that Ed could provide any assistance from experience, but the man is smart – probably one of the smartest people he’s ever met. One of the dumbest, too, but he supposes therein lies a fundamental truth: to gain something, one must sacrifice something else.

For him, regaining his memories piece by piece has meant giving up any peace of mind he might’ve had. Not to mention sleeping well at night – because every time he tried to close his eyes just for a moment to rest, fragments of memories yet to be unlocked darted behind his eyelids and actually falling asleep had made it worse, the few times he’d managed. Even wine hadn’t helped, which feels like a novel experience, although he can’t be certain.

So, he’s reluctantly stayed awake the whole night, trying to make use of the sleeplessness to little avail. Projecting an air of authority is harder than expected when all he wants to do is lie down somewhere in a quiet, safe room and rest. Not sleep, exactly, considering the half-forgotten bits and pieces of his memories that haunt him, but rest in the sense of taking a moment to breathe, to clear his mind of everything that occupies it and let go, even if just for a little while.

None such luxury is awarded to him now, however, sitting at Zsasz’s dining table opposite the girl he knows is called Selina Kyle, also known as the Cat, who can get him information he desperately needs. Ed hovers somewhere behind him, probably leaning against the wall in an attempt to make himself look to be a part of the proceedings while remaining at a distance. 

Oswald can’t fault him for that – at the very least, the man knows when to make his presence known without intruding in matters that don’t concern him. Well, that concern him a little, Oswald supposes, but there will be time later to deal with whatever needs to be dealt with when it comes to the other.

After all, one doesn’t get as far in life as Oswald had, once upon a time, without having their priorities in order. And right now, his priority is to learn as much as he can of what’s been going on in the city to fill the gaps of his time in Arkham. 

The girl doesn’t look particularly happy to be sitting where she is, but she isn’t uncomfortable, either. Briefly, he thinks she’ll amount to a great deal if she manages to survive long enough.

He motions for her to start talking, but Selina crosses her arms and stares him down.

“You promised me half of what you owe upfront,” she says, “and I ain’t telling you nothing before I get it.” 

Oswald can virtually feel his blood pressure rising; he can tell she means it, though, so he digs into his pockets and pulls out a few folded bills.

He lays them out on the table between them and Selina squints before grabbing the money so fast its almost imperceptible. 

“You got your money. Now talk,” he says. 

The girl flashes a toothy smile at him, leaning back in the chair. “Whaddaya wanna know?”

No ‘thank you’, no nothing. So much for manners.

“Everything that’s happened since I went to Arkham,” Ed pipes up when Oswald doesn’t answer fast enough. 

“I didn’t keep tabs on you, Forensic Guy, so you gotta give me something better than that,” Selina says, rolling her eyes at Ed. “Although maybe I shoulda done,” she adds after a moment, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. “But hey. Hindsight.”

“Everything significant starting from mid-November, then,” Ed persists, ignoring her inquisitive gaze and moving closer to the table, close enough to loom over their little meeting without fully being a part of it. 

If Ed’s trying to play the bad cop in this little routine, he’s… Well, not exactly succeeding in Oswald’s eyes, and Selina doesn’t seem too convinced, either – it’s probably the cozy sweater and the sleep-ruffled hair that break the illusion.

Ed’s going to need better clothes if he’s going to be taken seriously.

“So, are _you_ gonna pay me too,” Selina asks him before turning her gaze towards Oswald.  “Or are you guys like a package deal now?”

He meets her gaze. “Our interests align for now, if that’s what you mean.”

Selina smiles, uncomfortably _knowing_ for a girl her age. The nerve… Oswald takes a slow, deep breath and tries to control the anger bubbling deep within.

“Whatever you say, Penguin,” she replies before launching into her info-dump.

They listen, Ed still standing and Oswald sitting, as Selina lays out all the major events in the city the news outlets don’t dare to cover, from the power struggles within the mob families to the latest who’s who of the city’s flourishing criminal landscape. 

All in all, it takes her the better part of an hour to bring him up to speed – if her intel is as good as she claims it to be, he’s gotten well more than his money’s worth. Already his mind is busy working on ways to apply to the weak spots in the families, to take back control of his city, and it’s not even time for breakfast yet.

“I held up my end of the bargain,” Selina says after they’ve spent a minute in silence. “It’s time for you to hold up yours. Where were you?”

Oswald fights the urge to roll his eyes. The kid is nothing if not persistent, he has to give her that. 

“I was in Arkham,” he says simply. He doesn’t trust her enough to give her the whole truth, and honestly, what would be the point? It’s not like they’d been friends – allies, perhaps, in a sense, but not friends. And the girl likes money far too much to be wholly trustworthy, especially with something as big as this. 

If Selina has any opinions about what he’s said, she doesn’t show it. “Yeah, I figured,” she says, glancing at Ed. “Where else would you have picked up your new boy toy? Unless you knew each other before?”

If crime doesn’t work out for her, Oswald thinks, Selina would have a magnificent career in journalism. 

“You got your intel, I got mine,” he says instead of voicing his thoughts. “There’s just one more thing I need you to do before I give you the rest of your cash.”

Selina frowns, but doesn’t argue. “Shoot.”

“I need you to locate the remains of one Gertrude Kapelput,” he says and saying his mother’s name sends a painful twinge through his heart. “Sooner, rather than later, if you could. But time isn’t an issue.”

Selina’s frown deepens. “I’m a thief, not a spy,” she replies, crossing her arms.

“If you want to stay in this line of work, you should learn to be both,” Oswald tells her nonchalantly. “Think of the job as stealing a piece of information, Selina. Unless you don’t think you capable of doing it...”

He trails off purposefully, letting her stew in the silence for a moment.

Finally, Selina huffs in annoyance, standing up. “Fine. I’ll do it. But write the name down, I got no idea how to spell it.”

Oswald makes to rise from his seat but before he can, Ed produces a pen and a slip of paper seemingly out of thin air.

“Here,” he says quietly, handing them over. 

Oswald nods in thanks and writes the name down before holding it out for Selina. She grabs the paper just as quickly as shed grabbed the money before and strolls out of the room. A moment passes before the front door clicks and they’re alone again.

“You’re amazing, Oswald,” Ed says, sitting down at the table in the seat Selina had vacated moments before. “Leaning on her pride to get her to do what you wanted… Truly ingenious.”

Oswald smiles.

 

***

 

Breakfast is a quiet affair, all things considered. Zsasz still hasn’t emerged from the basement, the only indication of his presence in the house being the occasional screams from whatever poor sod he’s got locked up in there with him.

Ed picks at the cereal Oswald’s managed to produce from the hectic mess of the kitchen; it’s rather funny, in its way, how a man as precise and meticulous at his job as Victor Zsasz extends virtually none of said precision into his home. Not to say that the house is filthy, which it isn’t, but there is a distinct lack of organization over the chaos within that’s starting to irritate Ed more and more the longer he spends confined within its walls.

He looks over the table at Oswald tapping away at a small cellphone, his brow furrowed. Working on something, then. Or some _one_ , more likely. He looks exhausted, the light in the kitchen accentuating the dark circles under his eyes that Ed hadn’t noticed in the living room, the hollows of his cheeks almost skeletal. Somehow, he still manages to look composed, effortlessly elegant despite the hideous bowl of cereal in front of him and the telltale signs of fatigue on his face.

“Did you even sleep last night?” Ed asks after another five minutes have passed.

Oswald looks up from the phone. “What?”

Ed repeats the question.

Oswald shrugs.

“You need to rest,” Ed says and when Oswald doesn’t reply, continues speaking. “Look, it’ll help you heal. Both brain and body. Did you know that sleep deprivation produces elevated levels of corticosterone, which directly affects the regeneration your brain cells?”

Oswald scoffs. “I didn’t, no. And what if I can’t sleep? What do I do then, _Doctor_ Ed?” he replies, voice dripping with annoyance.

“Why can’t you?” Ed asks gently, even though his patience is starting to wear thin. _Why does he always have to be so contrary?_ Still, at least one of them has to keep his cool, and if it must be him, then so be it.

Almost painfully, it reminds him of the first few nights at the asylum. It’s like they’re stuck in the same place no matter what he does – and he can’t remember what he’d done the first time to coax Oswald out of his slump, or if there was indeed anything at all that he did that was truly helpful. It doesn’t stop him from trying, though.

He’s in this for better or worse, after all.

Oswald takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. “I can’t. Not until they’ve all paid for what they’ve done.”

“You don’t have to do this alone. Let me help,” Ed says and, for a moment, considers reaching out but thinks better of it. He’s not exactly the best at reading social cues, he knows as much, but it would be a bad, bad idea to initiate any physical contact right now, that much is plain to see even to Ed.

Oswald slowly opens his eyes, pupils widening with the influx of light. “And what could _you_ possibly do, Ed? I’m afraid you’re not exactly a criminal mastermind, given your track record.”

“I can assure you my skill set is far more varied than you seem to be convinced. I can pick locks, for one. I’m good with electronics. And I’m betting that whatever it is you’re planning – and not telling me about, but I digress – you’re going to need resources. Resources that I can, perhaps, provide for you, if given the chance,” Ed finishes, looking to Oswald and pleading to be given said chance without using words.

Oswald looks pensive for a moment, setting the phone down on the table and crossing his arms. “What do you propose, then?”

“Cities and rivers both have me, yet only one of me does not give what it has gladly. What am I?” Ed says with a smile.

Oswald narrows his eyes. “Again with the riddles? Really?”

“Do you give up, then?”

“You want to rob a bank. Like some common criminal,” Oswald says, tone flat.

Ed shrugs. “Everyone has to start somewhere. What better place to do that than at Gotham City Bank?”

Oswald still doesn’t look convinced.

 _Fine. Time to bring out the big guns, then_ , Ed thinks. “Look. I want to do this and I can tell you’re not exactly happy about the idea, so how about we make a deal? I’ll take care of the bank job myself, no attachment to you or your... enterprise, minuscule though it may be right now. Think of it as a loan without a deadline – I get to challenge myself and you get money that you can pay me back anytime you like. Everybody wins.”

“What’s the catch?” Oswald asks, still not convinced.

It’s like every conversation they have keeps circling back into the same thing – Ed trying to reach out and offer to meet the other halfway, with Oswald kicking and screaming and not listening to a word Ed is saying.

Ed shrugs, trying to hide his disappointment. “Aside from me keeping a portion of the proceeds to further my own career, so to speak, there isn’t one.”

Oswald seems about to say something when there’s the sound of heavy footsteps up the basement stairs and a thud somewhere in the living room, followed by the crackle of the television turning on.

A moment passes before Zsasz shouts, “Hey, Glasses! You’re on TV!”

Ed and Oswald exchange a brief glance before rising from the table and walking to the living room.

Sure enough, there’s a photo of Ed on the television screen, a mugshot nestled in a line-up with eight others next to the droll news anchor. _Among the Arkham Asylum escapees is Edward Nygma,_ she says as his photo is highlighted on the screen, _former GCPD forensic scientist who was apprehended and sentenced to intensive therapy last November after being found not guilty for two homicides by reason of insanity._

She goes on about the rest of the escaped inmates, listing off names and crimes, as well as shedding what little light there is to be shed on the Indian Hill facility in the basement of the asylum – seems like the police got their raid warrant after all.

Not for the first time, Ed is glad to be on the outside.

The news anchor seems to be wrapping up the story meanwhile, finishing up with the usual notices of _armed-and-dangerous_ and a quick _Stay safe, Gotham,_ before seamlessly moving on to the weather forecast from a young man named Jack who looks barely more than a teenager and reads the meteorology report off the teleprompter with a shaky voice.

Zsasz is stretched out on the couch, languid and– and snoring, apparently.

 _What a strange man_ , Ed thinks, also not for the first time.

“So, wait, your last name is Nygma? Which means your name is...” Oswald starts and Ed smiles.

“Edward Nygma. E. Nygma. Enigma,” he replies, his smile growing wider with each word leaving his mouth. “I know.”

“It’s not your birth name,” Oswald says and it’s a statement, not a question.

“It’s not the family name, no. I kept ’Edward’ – that, I didn’t mind. The rest of it, however... Well,” Ed shrugs. “I changed it as soon as I could.”

Oswald nods, probably neither in approval nor understanding, but Ed can hope – Oswald doesn’t ask what his birth name was, or why he changed it, and for that, Ed is grateful. It’s not a topic he likes to dwell on much, has in fact avoided thinking about at all. No one else has ever asked before, so there’s been no reason to bring it up.

 

***

 

Time passes, as it’s wont to do.

Despite Oswald’s initial misgivings, he has to admit Ed is good at what he does, whether it be the preparation work for the heist or planning out the accompanying distraction. He isn’t completely sure what exactly the plan is, or how Ed’s making sure he isn’t recognized and captured as soon as he sticks his nose out of Zsasz’s house, but...

Surprisingly, Ed is good. His mind whirs and weighs and calculates each step of his plan with precision, methodical and sharp in ways Oswald’s never seen anyone else. With some direction, there’s no telling what he could do.

The more time they spend together, the more Oswald feels grateful to his past self for making the decision to let Ed live. After all, he’s proven to be invaluable to the cause, directing matters with a deft hand and with natural ease, so much so that Oswald wonders how he managed without him.

He had done, absolutely, but… with Ed’s help, he could have been so much more.

 _Can_ be so much more.

For now, though, his own plans are on hold as their collective focus lies on acquiring the funds to see them through. To go against Galavan, he needs an army. And he can’t get one if he has nothing to pay them with, even though every bit of his very being cries out to exact his revenge immediately.

Still, he knows he should wait. He’s done so before, and can do it again – because this time, the stakes are lower, and he’s not keen on repeating what happened when he went in, guns blazing. The humiliation alone stings perhaps worse than the knowledge that he died for his trouble. His mother’s death, though, weighs heaviest of all on his mind.

For her sake, he will wait, will bide his time and make his preparations to ensure he doesn’t fail again.

After six days, Ed’s heist plan is no longer a distant idea but a set sequence of events carefully laid out and fine-tuned to be the perfect crime, Oswald realizes he doesn’t doubt anymore, his wariness a thing of the past, for better or worse. Because through all of it, through the week they’ve spent on the outside, there’s been numerous opportunities for Ed to walk away, to leave him to deal with the mess he’s in alone, but he hasn’t.

He’s remained, been a constant source of patience and support – and Oswald knows he hasn’t been easy to deal with, knows he’s been perhaps more openly hostile than he would’ve been under different circumstances. A traitorous part of him whispers that he’s lying to himself, he would not have spared a second glance to Ed just as he hadn’t the first time they met, but this Ed Nygma is a completely different man, one worthy of his attention, this one is the version he could do business with.

Still, it surprises him the first time he thinks of the other with affection instead of suspicion.

They _are_ friends, he realizes the night before Ed’s elaborate scheme is set to begin, poring over the schematics of the bank side by side with the ones for the art gallery, bought with most of what remains of Oswald’s personal funds. Three keys to the railway station’s lockers lie in the middle of Zsasz’s dining room table alongside a can of green spray paint, nestled between two empty bottles of wine, while at the far end of the table, the detailed plans for the bombs to be planted at the train station lie all but discarded – the bombs are done, after all, two dummy ones and one real to keep the cops on their toes and out of Ed’s hair.

“Isn’t stealing _that_ painting a bit too much on the nose?” Oswald asks, not for the first time, sipping what’s left of his wine. Through the week, Zsasz has been a gracious host – that is, if such a moniker can be applied to a host who isn’t home most of the time and mostly shows up every now and then to bring his guests some cheap takeout and wine.

Ed smiles, the low light dancing in his eyes. “As I’ve said before, I’ll be shocked if anyone at the GCPD figures it out. The clue in the context is simple enough, combined with the other two… but the title, I sincerely doubt they’ll notice it’s an anagram, let alone understand its significance. Trust me, I worked with those idiots for years.”

Oswald isn’t as certain, but it’s not like he can say no. It isn’t his plan, isn’t his heist, even if he stands to gain the most from it – so, he bites back the protest rising from his throat, lets Ed plan stealing the painting titled _Mad Grey Dawn_ and hopes the other is right about the cops.

It would be a shame to lose someone as competent, as naturally gifted as Ed over something as silly as a painting, but…

Ed’s a grown man who can make his own decisions.

Even if those decisions aren’t the brightest.

And he has all but flourished in planning the bank heist, shedding the remnants of the bumbling nerd Oswald had met at the police station and emerging as something new, something sharp and keen and worthy of attention.

So, he shrugs, looking over the schematics of the dummy bombs one more time. It’s delicate work, very different from what he’s used to – at least, as much as he remembers being used to, parts of his memory still fail him – and, surprisingly, beautiful. There’s elegance in the mappings of the routes in and out, in the notes on the margins about explosives and compound ratios, in the line of Ed’s jaw as he goes over the camera locations in the gallery one last time.

It’s absolutely not the time to let his mind wander, but knowing something and acting on it are entirely different matters. So, he hums under his breath as he looks over the plans and tries to keep his focus, to keep his gaze from drifting over to Ed.

It’s not as easy as it should be.

 

***

 

As he’d expected, his plan goes off without a hitch.

Ed sends the GCPD on a wild goose chase from the art gallery to the train station, lets them chase after their tails and run around in circles trying to figure out what’s happening, and once it’s clear their efforts have been concentrated on the bombs at the station, he strikes.

Meaning, he adjusts his black domino mask and his hat, thinks for a moment about the odd but not unpleasant feel of his new contact lenses, wipes invisible lint off his suit, adjusts his bag, and simply strolls into the bank through a service door, graciously left open by a panicked employee, paid for with a simple bribe through an untraceable fifth party.

The building has been evacuated, safety protocols slotting into place despite two out of the three bombs in the neighboring train station being completely harmless: they will release nothing except a foul smell and green smoke once detonated, and not complete annihilation, but nobody knows that.

For a moment, Ed allows himself to marvel in the complex simplicity of his plan – an oxymoron, yes, but a fitting one. Part of him is still waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something to go wrong, but there’s no one around to press the alarms and bring the police force on his back, and he’ll be long gone before they even realize what’s happened.

It’s hard not to be pleased with himself. After all, this whole scheme has been conceived and executed by him – Oswald had helped with a few details, given a few pointers on where to focus his attention, yes, but the plan is Ed’s brain-child and by extension, Ed’s triumph.

The thrill of success rushes through his veins, making him giddy as he makes his way through the corridors to the best loot, following the map he’s memorized. “ _Who overcomes by force, hath overcome but half his foe_ ,” he mutters under his breath and laughs quietly.

Traditionally, one would need a crew to pull off a bank heist, but it’s a good thing he’s far from traditional. Doing it alone will yield a smaller reward, yes, but it will be more than enough for what they need – and getting what he wants is delightfully easy, it appears.

 _They really need to upgrade their security systems_ , he thinks as he stuffs stack after stack of cash into his bag, careful to keep the spray-paint can away from the bills, before moving on to the next area, absently thinking about where to best lay out his message to the police.

After all, what fun would this be if he didn’t rub it in their faces?

He’s even got the appropriate riddle picked out, if it can be considered a riddle – it’s one of that elusive sort which fall in the gray area between riddle, joke, and observational humor, but it’s nothing if not fitting.

 

***

 

“ _Police baffled after mysterious robber hits Gotham City Bank_ ,” Oswald reads out loud from the evening paper. “ _The robbery appears to be connected to an art theft at the city’s largest art gallery earlier today, as well as a subsequent bombing at the Union Railway Station. Detective James Gordon, who is running point on the investigation, declined to comment on whether the three crimes were connected, but an anonymous source has pointed out that all three locations had been tagged with green question marks_.” He scans the rest quickly before saying, “They go on to detail what little specifics have been released to the public, but there’s nothing particularly interesting. It seems your overture has well and truly been a triumph, dear friend.”

They’re sitting in the living room, having cleared two sofas from the guns and knives Zsasz has left there – with permission, of course, although said permission was mostly just a shrug from Zsasz which Oswald had chosen to take for a positive answer.

Ed grins, drunk on his victory and the celebratory champagne they’d splurged on, reaching out to take the newspaper from Oswald and see for himself. He’s discarded the pair of contact lenses – apparently, they irritate his eyes unbearably if left in for more than a few hours – but the domino mask remains tucked into the breast pocket of his new suit, a testament to the day’s events along with the duffle bag full of cash lying in front of the TV.

He did it.

He actually did it.

They’re rich.

Well, _Ed_ is, but at this point, it’s their mutual fund since Oswald couldn’t with good conscience accept the original cut that Ed had offered. It still doesn’t fail to perplex him how… how _willing_ Ed is to part with his money, all for his sake. It’s both flattering and confusing, because Oswald can’t for the life of him figure out _why_. He knows he’s done nothing to deserve it.

Maybe that doesn’t matter, though. Maybe it doesn’t have to.

Still, he doesn’t tell Ed that Selina had been by while he was gone, finally bringing the intel about his mother’s gravesite. She’d been buried in his absence, it appears, at one of the smaller graveyards in the city’s further suburbs, just a few miles from Slaughter Swamp. The knowledge that there is a grave, that his mother’s body has been laid to rest brings with it a sort of peace, of closure. At the same time, however, it gives him even more of an incentive to exact his revenge – after all, thanks to Galavan, he’d been unable to attend the burial of his flesh and blood.

So, Oswald smiles despite himself and he keeps his silence, laughs with Ed about the stupidity of the cops and lets him enjoy his moment in the limelight, drinks the champagne and doesn’t think about the things that keep him awake at night. There will be time tomorrow for serious things, for plans and schemes and revenge, but just for one night, he can allow himself to forget.

Before he realizes it, Ed has moved over from the other couch to his own and wrapped his arms around him. He smells like soap and sweat and gunpowder with a whiff of the champagne, mumbling something quick and small that Oswald can’t hear, his breath warm against the fabric covering Oswald’s shoulder.

It would be easier to figure out what he’s saying if Oswald didn’t worry about spilling champagne on Zsasz’s carpet, so he gently detaches himself from the other (even though it feels like every inch of his being is screaming out for him not to do it, so he allows himself to keep a hand on Ed’s forearm) and sets the glass on the coffee table, pushing an old-fashioned pair of revolvers out of the way.

Ed blushes, ever so slightly, the flush of his cheeks deepening from the mild hue of tipsiness to the brighter pink of embarrassment.

“Sorry–“ he starts, but Oswald stops him.

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it. I couldn’t hear what you said, that’s all,” he tells Ed, who seems to deflate in relief.

“Oh.”

Oswald waits patiently for a moment, but once it becomes clear Ed needs a little bit of prompting, he simply asks again, even though it seems Ed has promptly forgotten what it was he was doing in the first place, looking at the muted television reporting yet another story on the local football team.

At the sound of his voice, Ed turns back to face him, all solemn seriousness.

“Thank you,” he says, “I could never have done it without you, Oswald. Thank you.”

Oswald tries very hard not to preen at the compliment, but it’s proving to be an impossible feat.

“You sound like a politician, Ed,” he tells the other, trying to lighten the mood. He can only hope Ed won’t turn out to be of the surly and morose type of drunk people, but one can never be too sure. He’ll keep his own thanks for the morning, for when he can be certain Ed will remember it.

Ed huffs in response, the hints of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “If either of us were to be a politician, you would be far better suited for it, my friend.”

Now _there’s_ an idea.

“Not until I’ve settled this Galavan mess,” Oswald replies.

Ed nods, turning to reach for the champagne bottle.

Oswald swats his hand away. “You’ll thank me in the morning,” he says when Ed frowns.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you've stuck with me this far, from the bottom of my heart: thank you.  
> a few cameos here and there, too, see if you can spot them! :)

The Baudelaire Flower Shop is mostly empty, save for a few stragglers: a man looking worriedly at a display of red roses, a woman browsing the selection of greeting cards near the till.  

Oswald isn’t sure if said emptiness is because of the general unrest on the streets following Ed’s debut yesterday and the GCPD’s incompetent response, or because of the early hour and the shop’s location. Either seem like a good answer, but he prefers the former – he’d driven past the downtown station on the way here, mostly out of curiosity, and there had already been the hints of a protest brewing.

It seems Ed’s little stunt had provided them both with money and with a distraction, the latter of which an unintentional but welcome bonus. At least as far as Oswald knows. Ed with his big brain probably thought of that in advance – and even if he hadn’t, Oswald’s pretty sure he’ll take credit for it anyway.

Good, too. He should be proud of himself, of what he’s achieved. Because even if Oswald’s own preferences lie in more in the gist of organized crime, it doesn’t mean he can’t appreciate a job well done, especially one as intricate and, dare he say it, needlessly complicated as what Ed had done.

It had been a good plan, sure, and the execution surprisingly well-done for someone as inexperienced as Ed, but… He can’t help thinking there would’ve been far easier ways to get what they wanted.

Still, what’s done is done and so long as it doesn’t come back to bite them, it’s all good.

He runs his fingers mindlessly along the petals of an orchid, deep in thought. They do have a nice selection here, traditional roses and tulips side-by-side with daisies, bird of paradise flowers and various cacti, as well as some dark green and heavy-leaved potted plants.

“Pretty, aren’t they?” a small voice says from somewhere near his elbow. Oswald looks down, startled, to see a young girl standing uncomfortably close. She has bright red hair and watery green eyes, the colors amplified by the ratty and mud-green striped sweater she’s wearing. “It’s a shame they’re killing the planet.”

“I’m… What?” he asks, removing his hand from the flower.

The girl shrugs. “The carbon impact of most flowers sold like this is horrible. They’re imported, you know. The way I see it, you gotta grow them yourself or buy local, or don’t bother at all.”

“What… what is this?” Oswald asks again, unsure what to make of this kid. “Are you trying to get me to sign a petition? Because if so, I’m not interested.”

“I’m just saying, is all,” the girl replies, which isn’t helpful at all. She doesn’t look impressed or apprehensive about the scowl he’s giving her, either.

Children these days.

“Okay then,” Oswald retorts, because what else is there to say? He’s not going to yell at a little girl in a flower shop – now _that_ would be a new low for him. But maybe there is something…

“Oh, by any chance, do you know if they have any lilies?” he asks, figuring he’ll give it a shot. After all, he’ll be damned if he can’t find his mother’s favorite flowers.

The girl looks away from the flowers and up at him, her features eerily blank. “Yeah, over there by the chrysanthemums.”

“…thanks,” he says, turning to go.

If only he knew what chrysanthemums looked like.

He takes a few steps towards the direction she’d waved at before turning back, but the girl is already gone.

Still, the shop isn’t too big. He’ll find the flowers.

Eventually.

It’s not like he doesn’t have time – he’d planned to be back at Zsasz’s house around noon, and the graveyard isn’t too far from here, either. It’ll be fine. If all else fails, he’ll locate the shopkeeper.

Fortunately, the general direction seems to have been enough, because he after a few steps he can see the bright, intense varieties of lilies on display. But all those lively colors seem wrong, inappropriate, somehow, which is why he turns to the white calla lilies off the side of the display.

Looks like he’s finally found what he’s been looking for.

 

***

 

_He’s in Arkham, in the visitation room he’s been to too many times._

_Oswald sits across from him, wearing a perfectly tailored black suit with a purple brocade tie and a matching waistcoat._

_A small, gift-wrapped box sits on the table between them, the wrapping paper gleaming under the fluorescent light._

_Oswald motions for him to open the gift, light playing between his fingers._

_It’s a puzzle box._

_He solves it like he’s done every previous time._

_There’s a heart in the box, pulsing and bloody and oh so very alive._

_Oswald smiles, warmth radiating from every pore. He’s beautiful, almost excruciatingly so, and looking at him is like trying to look at the rising sun, awe and pain and joy bleeding together until there’s nothing left._

_But nothing can stop him from looking, just as nothing could stop him from staring at sunrises when they still existed. They don’t here, between these walls._

_A silent request for permission is relayed as he looks and burns._

_Once permission is granted, he picks up the heart, holds it gently in his hands, admires the way blood pours, the heart a marvelous box of organic circuitry, bright red and pulsing with life. Oswald says something, the words dropping from his mouth like bubbles, light and impossibly intricate. They float in the air between them, reflecting light and filling the room with a warm glow._

_There’s a twitch in his chest. He looks down and sees the striped shirt he’s wearing, unbuttons it to his sternum. His skin seems intact, but he knows it won’t stay that way._

_He looks at Oswald, opens his mouth._

_He knows what he has to do._

You can have it _, Oswald says, sunlight creeping along his face, leaning closer, closer, until he’s close enough that the flecks of blue in his irises are plain to see._

Only if you’ll have mine, _he replies and reaches deep into his chest._

I’ve always had yours, _Oswald says and smiles, his jawbone crackling._

_The light turns cold as the room disappears in a flurry of frost and ice._

 

Waking up is pain.

Well, it’s pain as in his head feeling like it’s about to explode, the thrumming at his temples an unpleasant and distracting chorus. If Ed ignores the pounding headache, the rest of waking up doesn’t seem so bad, especially once he remembers what he’d achieved the day before.

The domino mask is on the night-stand, next to his glasses, a glass of water, and two small pills. Somehow, he doubts he was sharp enough at the end of the night to set it all out for himself, which leaves only one possibility.

His heart swells at the thought.

He looks down at his chest, at the green sweater in place of the suit he remembers wearing last, and recalls bits and pieces of the dream he’d had. Not everything, of course, but what he remembers feels familiar. Recurring, somehow, even though he knows he hasn’t seen that specific version before.

Somehow, everything leads him back to Arkham, even his dreams.

Leads back to places he can’t allow himself to go.

He has plenty already, has an outlook for a future where he can be more than an embarrassing side note in the city’s history, has, for what might be the first time in his life, a true friend – and still he wants more when he knows well enough that he shouldn’t.

Part of the human condition, probably, wanting what you can’t have.

_I can give you strength or leave you powerless. I can be snared with a glance but no force can compel me to stay._

He’d said it himself, what feels like a lifetime ago: there are no happy endings, not for people like him – like _them_. There’s no use in pretending otherwise, no use in _wanting_ when he knows it can never be anything more than a daydream.

It had been apparent enough last night when he’d... oh dear.

He’ll have to apologize. He’d been overwhelmed from the success of the day, had been drunk and emotional and reached out the only way he’d known how. It’s a good thing alcohol throws off his coordination, at least.

And Oswald had been gracious about it, of course, but…

It’s not like he’d told the truth when he’d been asked to repeat himself. Well, a partial truth, but not the whole truth at all. But there’s no use in dwelling on these matters, not when there’s work to be done.

After all, the bank job had only been the beginning.

So, Ed gets out of bed, picks up the pills and knocks them back with the glass of water. Aspirin, it seems; he doesn’t feel better immediately, but it’s a start. _The main contributor to hangovers is dehydration_ , a part of his mind suggests.

Which means he needs more water, and getting more means going downstairs. Which is exactly what he does, careful to avoid stepping on the rifle lying at the foot of the stairs as he makes his way to the kitchen.

Both the living room and the dining room are empty, as is the kitchen.

Overall, the house is suspiciously quiet – even the basement.

And the basement has never been this quiet before.

He checks the clock, which reads a little past noon, and shrugs as he turns the coffee maker on. He can’t let himself worry. After all, there’s no cause to be worried. Both Zsasz and Oswald are adults, perfectly capable of taking care of themselves – Zsasz maybe more so, given the number of weapons he carries around at all times.

Still, no matter how rational he tries to be, it’s not helping.

The front door opens and Ed perks up, perhaps embarrassingly so. He deflates immediately when instead of the voice he’d expected, Selina shouts out, “Hey! Anybody home?”

“In here,” he replies and can barely make out soft footsteps heading his way.

“Oh. It’s you,” she says, giving him a once-over. “You look like shit. Where are the others?”

Ed looks over to her, trying not to bristle. “The house was empty when I woke up.”

“Your boyfriend take off already? Or are they both your boyfriends? I never understood what was going on there,” Selina says, hopping up to sit on the counter.

“Oswald’s not my boyfriend, Selina. Neither is Zsasz, for that matter. And I don’t know where either of them are, as I said,” Ed says, fighting the urge to rub his temples. “What do you want?”

Selina gives a toothy smile. “Money.”

“You already got what you were owed,” Ed says. “You know Oswald doesn’t do charity, if that’s what this is about.”

“Nah, I’m just messing with ya. I was actually here to see if he found the grave,” she replies, hopping off the counter and making her way to the fridge. She opens the door and stares pensively at the mostly-empty shelves. “You guys seriously don’t have any food. Or do you only eat plain ketchup and… _what_ is _that_ … very, _very_ moldy cheese?”

“It’s Fourme d'Ambert, it’s supposed to be like that,” Ed says absently, looking for the brown sugar packets that he knows to be somewhere in his general vicinity.

“Sure,” Selina says, drawing out the word like it has six syllables instead of one, and wrinkles her nose at the cheese.

“Wait, what grave?” Ed asks once the first part of what she’d said registers. Perhaps a bit too forcefully, by the looks of it, because she closes the fridge door with a huff and turns to face him, crossing her arms.

“That old lady’s grave that he asked me to find? Well, he asked for remains, but they just so happened to be in a grave, y’know?” she says, narrowing her eyes at him. “You were there when he asked.”

“That’s where he is, then,” Ed says, a twinge of hurt making its way down his spine. “He went to see her.”

He’d thought they were better friends than this. Surely, Oswald would tell him about something this important?

The tangle of emotions must be apparent on his face, because Selina uncrosses her arms and looks at him, something a little like regret in her eyes.

“And you didn’t know, by the looks of it. Huh. I thought you guys were buddy-buddy.”

Ed turns away from her to check the coffee maker, not very thrilled at the thought of having to examine his… whatever-it-may-be with Oswald in front of the kid.

The coffee’s almost done, by the looks of it, but it’s not like he’s an expert. Still, the carafe is mostly full, so he turns it off and starts the hunt for a clean mug.

He makes a mental note to buy Zsasz a decent kettle as a thank-you gift.

“Okay, you don’t wanna talk about it, suit yourself. I’m still hungry, though,” Selina says after a moment of silence.

“There’s cereal somewhere in the cupboards,” Ed tells her once he’s found what he’s looking for.

Selina gives him a long look. “You can do better than that.”

Ed sighs and pours himself a cup of coffee, unfortunately without any sugar. “You’re trying to get me to buy you takeout, aren’t you?”

“Hey, you said it, not me,” she says and saunters off into the living room. “Besides, looks like you’re not hurting for cash. Me, however…”

“Fine, we’ll get something once someone with a phone gets back. But if any of my money goes missing while you’re here, I’ll flay you myself,” Ed calls after her and takes a sip of his coffee, frowning at the bitterness.

Selina only laughs in response and turns the television on.

 

***

 

Oswald gets back to the house around two.

He looks… happy. Peculiar for someone who just went to visit their beloved mother’s grave. Ed supposes it could be relief, but something tells him that’s not the case.

“Good afternoon, Ed,” he says, grinning so wide that it must hurt. “I have some great news.”

Ed tries to smile back, to little avail.

Oswald doesn’t seem to notice, too absorbed in his happiness. The smile on his face lessens somewhat once he notices Selina napping on the couch closest to the door, but doesn’t disappear entirely.

“Hello, Selina,” he says.

At the sound of her name, the girl bolts upright, her hand going towards her boot. “Oh, hi,” she says, turning for a moment. “I, um, I have to… I have to go now,” she says as she turns back and raises her eyebrows at Ed.

“Alright, then,” Ed says, keeping his face neutral, unsure of what she’s trying to convey to him.

Selina rolls her eyes and gives a curt nod before she turns to leave.

“Come by for dinner sometime if you like,” Ed adds as she’s heading out the door.

From the corner of her eye she glances at Oswald, who doesn’t say anything, before shrugging. “I’ll think about it. See you guys around.”

She’s gone before either of them can say anything.

Oswald stands near the door for a moment before he shakes his head and sits down on the couch Selina had vacated moments before.

“What’s the news, then?” Ed asks, a jolt of dread going through his very core.

Oswald smiles to himself and doesn’t reply.

“Oswald?” Ed asks again and Oswald finally, _finally_ looks at him.

“Hmm?”

“What’s the news?”

Oswald laughs. “The most wonderful thing has happened, my dear friend. In a million years, I could’ve never…”

“What is it?” Ed asks once Oswald trails off, carefully conjuring a smile even though most of him wants to get up and run away, and never hear the words he knows are coming.

“I met someone,” Oswald says, and Ed feels his heart shatter into a million tiny pieces.

“Oh?” he replies, doing his best to keep the disappointment from showing on his face.

It figures that this would happen. He’ll be alone again, all but forgotten in the shadow of this new person who’s made his only friend the happiest he’s ever seen him – and despite knowing he should, Ed’s not sure he can bring himself to be happy for it.

“Yes, he’s… I went to my mother’s grave, see,” Oswald says and it must show on Ed’s face that he’s not pleased about being left out of the loop, because Oswald quickly adds, “I found out while you were gone yesterday – Selina came by and told me. I was going to tell you last night, but I didn’t want to ruin the nice evening.”

Ed bristles at that, but tries to work past the little ball of anger and hurt that seems to have attached itself somewhere between his lungs. “If it’s important to you, it’s important to me. You wouldn’t have ruined anything.”

“If you say so,” Oswald replies and lets the matter drop. “As I was saying, I went to my mother’s grave. And… I met someone.”

Ed’s stomach drops.

“He was… He’s my father, Ed,” Oswald finishes.

“I… I thought you said he’d died when you were little?” Ed asks instead of voicing the thousands of thoughts that are running through his mind – disbelief seems to be the safest option here, and the only one worth dwelling on for now.

“So I was told. But, it turns out, he’s very much alive,” Oswald says and there’s nothing on his face but joy. Ed can’t exactly bring himself to share it. There’s simply too many questions unanswered, questions he can’t make himself ask right now – with a pang, he thinks he might understand why Oswald hadn’t told him about Selina’s discovery last night.

“I can’t even begin to imagine what that must feel like,” Ed replies eventually and Oswald seems pleased by the response, because he smiles again.

“I… I thought I was alone, that I was the last of my family,” Oswald says, picking at the hem of his suit jacket, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “As it turns out, I’ve gained not only a father but a stepmother and two stepsiblings as well.”

Ed doesn’t know how to respond.

“I haven’t met them yet, of course, but… My father is good, Ed. He’s a good person,” Oswald says, something soft and kind in his voice that Ed’s never heard before. “Far better than I deserve, I think.”

“What’s his name?” he asks and Oswald smiles yet again.

“Elijah Van Dahl.”

Old money, then – seems Oswald’s halfway to being a blue-blood.

Ed says as much and Oswald laughs in response.

“They’re rich, sure, but not _that_ rich. They do, however, own a lovely old manor just outside of town. It’s a couple of miles west from Slaughter Swamp, although Father says you couldn’t tell from the house that the place was anywhere nearby,” he tells Ed.

Ed nods, as if any of this makes sense.

“Which reminds me – he asked if I’d like to come over for dinner to meet the family, and I was wondering if you’d like to accompany me,” Oswald says, more of a request than a question, and once again, Ed is speechless.

 _Isn’t he thinking at all anymore? Is that what this is about? Has his mind finally snapped?_ he thinks and knows better than to say any of that.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea? My face was plastered all over the news last week, and not in a good way,” Ed says slowly, once the initial barrage of thoughts has gone. “I don’t think…”

Oswald waves his hand, as if batting the words away. “It doesn’t matter. I told him you were framed, which, if you ask me, isn’t too far from the truth. Besides, I _want_ you to meet him. Trust me on this, Ed.”

“I _do_ trust you. However, I don’t know if it’s wise to trust your… _extended_ family,” Ed says and Oswald’s eyes narrow. “Your father excluded, of course.”

“Of course,” Oswald says, eyes still narrowed.

There’s silence for a minute or so.

“You can say no if you’d rather not do it, you know,” Oswald says eventually.

“It’s not that at all,” Ed replies quickly, “I just…”

He thinks for a moment, looks Oswald in the eyes and sees nothing but hope and happiness.  If Oswald truly wants him to come with, then so be it.

“If you’re _really_ sure that my presence won’t cause any problems, then yes, I’d love to join you,” he says and Oswald smiles.

Ed smiles back, trying to ignore the numerous ways that his brain keeps supplying of how things could – and most likely will – go wrong.

 

***

 

A few days later, as Ed is standing in the middle of the dining room at the Van Dahl manor, covered in blood, he curses himself for letting things get this far.

The first dinner had been nice, civil, even, despite the dirty looks Mrs. Van Dahl kept shooting towards him, but it’s not like Ed had expected anything different at all. Oswald’s father, however, had been a truly gracious host – had even invited them to stay at the manor after hearing of his son’s predicament.

Although why exactly said invitation was also extended to Ed, he’s not completely sure. Well, tells himself he’s not sure, but it had been obvious what the family had thought of them – of _him_ , being there at the family dinner.

The house itself, once they’d gotten to it that first night, had looked both familiar and unfamiliar, like a half-forgotten vision from a dream. Upon entering, the sense of déjà vu had only amplified, the halls and rooms he’d never been to before strikingly recognizable with a sense of wrong about them, too, thoughts like _this painting should be over there_ or _there should be a rug here_ flitting through his mind faster than Ed could register them.

Despite the mild discomfort from that sense of knowing the house like the back of his hand without ever seeing it before, though, the first day had been okay. More than okay, really, considering how happy Oswald had been.

After that, though, especially with Mr. Van Dahl’s talk of having a meeting with the family attorney to change the details of his will…

Well. That hadn’t gone over well with the missus and her horrible children, to say the least.

He’d suspected they’d do something to sabotage Oswald’s claim to the heritage, but he hadn’t considered the possibility of them doing something so soon and, if he’s being honest, so stupidly. Poisoning a whole decanter of sherry with the intent of killing one specific person and managing to kill the wrong person to boot…

Absolutely pathetic.

And Ed had told Oswald the likeliest scenario of what had happened and why the next day once the people from the morgue had come and gone. Ed had made himself scarce during their visit, of course, to avoid making a bad situation worse – which gave him time to analyze the evidence he’d seen.

It was painfully obvious to see who had laced the sherry with cyanide and why – all the symptoms for histotoxic hypoxia had been there, as well as people with a motive. It was only a matter of time before the truth came out, so he’d made himself the bearer of bad news.

And Oswald’s revenge, once he’d realized who was to blame for his father’s death, had been swift and brutal. Beautiful, too, in its own way – the ferocity and speed with which Oswald had moved, as if driven by divine wrath, had come as a surprise to Ed, albeit a thrilling one.

Almost made him feel sorry for his stepfamily.

The key word being _almost_.

Although, to be fair, killing her children as well as decapitating Mrs. Van Dahl might have been a bit of overkill, but it’s not like Ed can pass any judgement. If anything, it seems about fair, the way she’d cried and begged for her life and confessed her sins as if that would help.

Unfortunately, even the arterial spray resulting from using a knife as a makeshift guillotine had just about ruined both Ed’s new sweater and Oswald’s favorite suit hadn’t helped her case at all.

He looks away from the woman’s severed head, currently set smack middle of the dining table in a small puddle of blood – they’ll have to get that cleaned up before it sets, wouldn’t want to ruin the lovely finish – and towards the drawing room, where Oswald is currently busy breaking more or less any item he can get his hands on.

“What should we do with the bodies?” he asks as Oswald picks up a beautiful vase and smashes it against the floor, snarling like an animal. The porcelain shatters against the floor in a marvelous fashion, the shards flying every which way.

“I don’t care,” Oswald growls, rage and pain written all over his face, pacing the room in search of more things to break. The wine bottles from the previous night’s dinner are already scattered in pieces across the floor, and Ed finds himself hoping they can hire someone to clean up the mess.

“We’ll have a funeral for your father, of course,” Ed says, eyeing the broken pieces of glass and pottery on the floor with distaste. “But for the rest of them…”

“For all I care, you can throw them out with the trash,” Oswald replies, halfway to shouting, his voice cracking at the end of the sentence.

“Okay. Do you want some tea?” Ed asks.

Oswald doesn’t reply.

Ed shrugs and wipes his hands on the front of his ruined sweater before making his way to the kitchen, hoping that the Van Dahls kept a better selection of tea than Victor Zsasz does.

Speaking of, he really should contact Zsasz for cleanup. It wouldn’t do well to leave the bodies sitting where they are – the blood could ruin the furniture.

 

***

 

Sometimes, Oswald thinks the Universe – or whatever divinity there is, if there _is_ one – hates him.

What other explanation is there? For every happy moment in his life, there are ten horrible ones. And to think he’d been wondering if perhaps he should try to reform, to turn away from what – _who_ – he’s used to being and try to be someone more like his father. Someone worthy of being a member of his new family, someone who could let go of the past to start anew.

Well. That opportunity, if it ever was one to begin with, is gone and done with now.

If anything, the events of the night have given him even more of an incentive to hold the city in the palm of his hand and crush it. After all, what good has being here ever done for him? It’s taken everything he loves from him in violent fashion, no matter how hard he tries to hold on.

With that thought, and with the fury boiling inside him finally starting to fizzle out, the tears start coming.

Ed says something, asks questions he can’t answer, and Oswald snaps something back without even registering what he’s saying. Ed leaves quickly after, and while Oswald knows he shouldn’t take it out on Ed, knows he’d done the right thing by pointing Oswald towards the people to blame…

Anger is an irrational, ugly thing.

And right now, he’s angry at the whole world.

Thinking the he hasn’t deserved anything that’s happened to him doesn’t help, either, because if he’s being honest, he’s well aware he’s done more than enough to deserve it. But knowing something rationally and accepting it are completely different things, and he can’t accept this. No matter his own flaws and faults, his parents bore none of the blame, and yet both died because of him.

Serves him right that Ed would go, too, leave him behind just like everyone else.

He picks up a crystal decanter from the end table and sends it flying towards the wall.

It doesn’t shatter, and it doesn’t make him feel any better.

The tears fall in earnest now, hard enough that he can’t see, so he sits down on the sofa near the fireplace and buries his head in his hands.

There are so many things he needs to do. Far too many, really, but he can’t stop. Can’t rest, not until…

Until…

When?

At this point, even the mere concept of _rest_ seems to be an unattainable dream.

Even though his father’s death has been avenged, his mother’s killers remain on the loose, running around the city, _his_ city, like they own it.

Filthy degenerates.

He’ll crush them and anyone they’ve ever cared about, if insects like that are capable of caring about anything.

“I brought you some tea,” Ed says from somewhere behind him and Oswald wipes away the tears quickly before he turns.

At the sight of Ed standing there, blood all over his clothes and a few specks of it on the lenses of his glasses, two teacups and the sugar bowl on a tray in his hands, the anger wrapped around his heart finally melts away only to be replaced by something he can’t name.

“I didn’t know which kind you liked, and there wasn’t much to choose from, so I went with chamomile. I hope that’s okay,” Ed continues and waits for a moment.

When there’s no reply, he steps closer.

“Oswald?” he asks, concern written all over his features.

“I thought you left,” Oswald says and his voice is faint, his throat constricting painfully around the words. He coughs but the lump in his throat doesn’t let up.

Ed frowns and sets the tray down on the coffee table before taking a seat next to him on the sofa.

“Why would I do that?” he asks and Oswald doesn’t have an answer.

Instead, he picks up a steaming cup of tea from the tray and takes a small sip.

They sit in silence for a while, watching the fire in the hearth die down until there’s scarcely anything left but a few embers.

“Thank you,” Oswald says quietly.

“Anything for you,” Ed replies, and it’s not the first time he’s said it but it is the first time Oswald realizes that he means it.

 

***

 

“So _this_ is where you’ll live now?” Zsasz says as Ed lets him through the front door of the manor the next morning.

“It’s Oswald’s now. He’s finishing with the paperwork at the attorney’s office as we speak,” Ed replies with a shrug. At least something good came out of Oswald’s father’s death – a callous thought, he knows, but a pragmatic one. 

Zsasz lets out a whistle. “It’s nice. Really nice. But you didn’t answer my question.”

“He hasn’t asked me to leave yet,” Ed says, conceding.

“I’ll bet you he won’t. Ever,” Zsasz replies, grinning – or maybe he’s just baring his teeth. It’s hard to tell with him.

Ed can already feel a migraine coming on. “Why does everybody keep saying things like that,” he mumbles to himself.

“Because not everyone is as blind as you two are,” Zsasz tells him and pats his shoulder.

Well, hits it three times, more like.

Ed doesn’t let himself react and instead leads Zsasz to the dining room where most of Mrs. Van Dahl and her children’s remains are currently located. Oswald had kept her head, for some reason Ed’s not really sure of, but it’s not like it’s _his_ stepmother’s remains, so he won’t say anything about it.

Everyone has their own methods for dealing with grief, and if Oswald wants to keep trophies, then so be it.

Although they’ll have to figure out what to do with it once decomposition sets in, but Ed supposes there are ways around it. In any case, the head’s currently in the freezer, so that’ll be a problem for another day.

“You got any trash bags in the house? I’ll also need a sharp knife and a handsaw,” Zsasz says, assessing the situation in the dining room. “Should probably call the girls here, too, otherwise I’ll be here all day.”

“Trash bags are in the kitchen, second cabinet to the left of the door,” Ed says before it occurs to him he shouldn’t know that. “And I’m sure you brought a knife and a handsaw yourself – I can see at least four knives from where I’m standing, and I know you carry more than that.”

“That was a trick question,” Zsasz replies nonchalantly, tapping away at his phone.

“It wasn’t a question,” Ed says, frowning.

“That was the trick.”

Ed rubs his temples.

It’s going to be a long day.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter killed me. i've gone over it several times and i'm still not quite happy with it, but... it's fine. it's totally fine. it's also longer than usual, so there's that.
> 
>  
> 
> a quick note: the seventh (and penultimate) scene in this chapter is where the fic warning comes into play.  
> if you can't stomach graphic violence or if you liked theo galavan, i'd strongly suggest you skip it.

“I’ve been thinking,” Ed says one night when they’re going over the various possibilities in which to exact Oswald’s revenge on Galavan, pacing around the dining room of the manor.

So far, they’ve come up with nothing.

It’s been a week since the bloodbath, a week since he’d inherited his father’s estate, and things are… not exactly looking up – Ed wouldn’t go that far – but they’re certainly better than what they used to be.

For one, there’s far fewer weapons lying around the house now that they’re not crashing at Zsasz’s house. Oswald has also hired a housekeeper, a sour-faced and sullen old Russian woman named Olga (which most likely isn’t her real name, but given that Ed’s rigorous background search had failed to provide anything concerning her person at all, he’s letting it slide for now), and is well on his way to build up his empire again.

Which leaves Ed in a precarious position. He’s Oswald’s friend, a trusted advisor, even, but not officially a part of the command chain. There’s but few people in the operation who even know that he’s a part of it, which is good in the sense that it’s keeping him from being dragged back to Arkham the moment some miserable underling cracks under pressure. Unfortunately, it also limits his input in the decision-making process.

After all, it’s Oswald’s empire, not his. And honestly, he doesn’t mind, he’s never wanted to rule Gotham in the same way that Oswald has, but… sometimes, in the quiet hours when everyone is asleep and the house creaks and groans and settles in the night, he wonders if this is truly what he was meant to do.

Because with the mess at Arkham and meeting Oswald first when he was dead and then when he was alive again, with the big plans and the bank heist, it’s a little bit disappointing to end up here. Sure, he’s safe and sound, and has a say in things concerning the city, but… sometimes, it doesn’t feel like it’s enough.

Perhaps it’s ungrateful selfishness, but he wants more than _this_ , wants more than hiding in the shadow cast by someone else’s glory – yes, he minds it a little bit less when it’s Oswald’s, who he knows is one of the brightest constellations in the skyscape of Gotham when it comes to fame and notoriety, but it doesn’t mean he’s happy with it. Content, maybe, but not happy.

And isn’t happiness what he deserves? To be fair, perhaps _deserves_ is the wrong word. Because he can’t stop himself from going over and over the bank job, the rush of adrenaline and excitement, the chance to test himself and prove himself better almost like a drug, and even the part of him that’s still the awkward, weird Ed Nygma working for the police is whispering that he wants it again.

There’s nothing sweeter than the rush of victory, and he’s been lacking in those for a while.

And Oswald is behaving strangely, too, awkward around him in a way he’s never been before, affectionate and attentive one moment, distant and absent-minded the next – so much so that it’s putting added strain on everything they’ve built. Strain that it might not be ready to take, still precarious and new.

Ed can’t help but think that if the other wants him to leave, he should just say so.

“I’ve been thinking,” he repeats again once he pulls himself from the train of thought and sees Oswald looking over from where he’s sitting at the head of table, back to the window, “that perhaps we’re going about this all wrong. What if we let _him_ come to _you_?”

Oswald narrows his eyes. “What makes you think he’s going to make a move if he hasn’t made one by now? I can’t sit around and wait for him to pay attention to me like a damn kid with his hand up in the air waiting for the teacher to notice him. I’ll take him down on _my_ terms, when _I_ want to. And _I_ want to do it as soon as possible. He has to pay.”

Ed feels more and more powerless by the moment. He doesn’t have a leg to stand on in this matter if Oswald doesn’t give him one, he knows that, and it seems like his efforts to offer any kind of a solution to the dead end they’re in continue to be shot down, just as they have been for the past week.

At this point, it’s starting to sting.

“Look, I’m not denying that you have plenty of good reasons to want this to be over and done with, but as things are standing right now, there’s nothing we can do,” Ed says and Oswald sighs, annoyance written all over his face.

“Don’t you think I know that? I don’t need you to be my voice of reason, Ed, I need you to help me _figure this out_ so I can get _justice_ for my _mother_ ,” he says, tone rising in shrillness through the sentence until he’s shouting the last words.

Justice…

_(a nightmare in the air and a dark knight and a growling voice and a fist connecting with his cheek and blood and pain and purple and green and what’s black and white and red all over a dead penguin a newspaper a bat a bat a bat a bat)_

“Ed! Are you listening to me!?” Oswald screeches from across the room and Ed shakes his head, trying to dispel the images running across the backs of his eyelids.

He must look shell-shocked because Oswald stands up and takes a few quick steps towards him, the chronic pain in his leg forgotten – but reminded of it quickly enough when his leg buckles under him. He corrects his stride well enough, avoiding falling, and leans on the back of a chair for support.

“Ed? What the hell was that?” Oswald asks, his annoyance forgotten as quickly as it appeared. His eyes are wide and worried, and the realization that no one else has ever looked at him like that hits Ed right in his core.

“I… I don’t know,” he says, trying to ignore the throbbing headache coming on. “I… I see things, sometimes. Things I don’t understand.”

It was bad enough when it was only dreams, prophetic visions of a life that never happened, but it’s been rare to get the flashes during the day. Not that it hasn’t happened – first in the asylum, then a few times afterwards, but never like this. Never for so long, and never with this much pain.

“What does that even mean? What kind of things?” Oswald asks and Ed doesn’t know how to answer.

“I don’t… Different paths, perhaps,” he says eventually, unsure if the subject should be addressed any further. He’s been dealing with it relatively well so far, all things considered, and there is not a small amount of irrational fear that if he addresses the fact of the visions – if that is indeed what they are, and he’s not simply descending into madness as he’s starting to suspect might be the case – they will only get worse.

In any case, how does one tell someone one cares about that they see versions of them dying by one’s own hand night after night?

“You mean…” Oswald says, trailing off into a confused silence.

Or maybe it’s not confusion but disbelief.

It’s hard to tell.

“I never was but am always to be; even the wisest of men look forward, never to see. What am I?” Ed asks, rubbing his temples.

He really, _really_ needs to sit down.

“Ed…” Oswald starts, but Ed doesn’t let him finish and repeats the riddle. It eases the pain somewhat, lets him focus on something else other than the acute feeling that his head is being cleaved in half.

“It’s _tomorrow_ ,” he answers himself when Oswald doesn’t say anything and the silence in the room starts becoming suffocating.

He can feel his hands trembling, small shivers running up and down his spine and he’s pretty sure he can feel sweat trickle down his temples.

“So you’re, what… you’re saying you can see the future,” Oswald says, more a statement than a question.

“A possible one. Or a present that didn’t come to happen. It’s hard to tell,” Ed says and Oswald listens, although it’s pretty apparent he’s not convinced.

Ed takes a deep breath. “I know how it sounds. But sometimes I remember things days before seeing them for the first time. This house, for one,” he says, gesturing around them, “I saw back in Arkham a long time before we ever got here. Stepping in for the first time didn’t feel like the first time at all. Some things were different from how I remembered them, yes, but it was familiar. This table, the sofas, the fireplace – even the paintings of your ancestors above the mantelpiece in the anteroom. A sort of déjà vu, if you will.”

“When did it start?” Oswald asks after a moment, seemingly having decided to humor him.

Ed thinks for a while, tries to pinpoint a time in recent memory without the ominous glimpses into things that haven’t been, and comes up blank. Everything in the past few months, everything during the time he’s been…

Oh.

“After I met you. The _other_ you, I mean,” Ed says, “back at the asylum.”

Everything leads him back to Arkham indeed.

 

***

 

Oswald doesn’t know what to think. Either his best friend, the man he trusts above everyone else in the world, is going insane, or he’s telling the truth – and both options are equally terrifying. Whatever it may be, one thing is for certain: it’s troubling him. Maybe it has been for a while, but he’s kept it hidden well enough to avoid detection. Or maybe it just hasn’t been this bad before.

Either way, to even begin to deal with this, Oswald needs a drink. Correction: several drinks.

He should’ve known better than to think they were done with Arkham. Because it’s an unspoken truth that the madhouse has loomed over them, a viscous dark shadow from a past he’d rather forget, corrupting everything with its poisonous influence, far more powerful than any building should have a right to be.

And perhaps it will never let Ed go. Out of the two of them, Oswald has fared significantly better in the aftermath – some nights when the ache in his leg is bad enough that even painkillers don’t help and he’s tossing and turning in his bed, unable to sleep, he can hear Ed’s familiar footsteps pacing up and down the halls. And there’s nothing he can do to help.

He should’ve known better the moment they got away that it wasn’t the end, because there’s also a very real possibility that one of these days, someone will recognize Ed and snitch on him to garner a favor from the cops, spiriting Ed away as if he’d never been here. And Oswald’s avoided thinking of it as much as he can, but more than anything, he hopes Ed understands why he can’t let him be a part of the operation to the capacity he deserves.

Because Oswald is selfish, he’s never denied that, and although it might be a steep price to pay, it’s worth it if only to keep Ed by his side.

Because none of this would be here if it weren’t for him; Oswald would still be at the asylum, perhaps none the wiser to who he is – and yes, some memories, even after all this time, remain blurry at the edges, but he has himself back. Without Ed, it’s very likely he’d be something else entirely.

And he’ll tell Ed all of this, will pour his very heart out once the time is right, but not yet. Not now, when it seems like he’s losing Ed no matter what he does. Because he knows how to break and twist and maim, and doesn’t know how to fix. Especially not something like this, whatever it is that Ed is going through.

Because what could he say that would help?

So, he does the only thing he can think of, walks over to where Ed is standing and wraps his arms around him as best as he can. It’s more than a little bit awkward with the height difference, but it seems to work to at least some extent, because after the initial surprise fades, Ed returns the hug.

They’ll figure something out.

They’ve managed so far.

Right?

 

***

 

Maybe Ed _should_ leave. Go somewhere else, be away from Oswald who seems to be at the center of the misery that’s beginning to crush him. It would be the logical thing to do, to try and see if distance helps.

But…

The heart wants what the heart wants, and the last thing Ed wants to do is walk away.

Because they aren’t done. As much as it may irritate him every now and then, he has to admit that Oswald is right: Galavan needs to be dealt with, and soon, if only so he can focus on figuring out what’s wrong with him. Because as things stand now, there’s no time to devote to try and figure out what happened to him back at Arkham.

However, it is being dealt with in the sense that they’ve got eyes and ears out looking for Strange, who is most likely the only person who might be able to shed light on the situation. If provided with the right incentive, of course. But it’s only been a day, and it’ll take time. And he’s getting along in the meanwhile – perhaps not as well as he’d like to, but he’s managing.

So, Galavan is the current priority. Specifically, destroying him. Which, if he’s being honest, is just a more delicate way of saying he needs to die. The only trouble with that, of course, is they’ve got nothing. There’s no angle, no outline of a plan that they haven’t considered, that doesn’t lead into a dead-end.

Maybe it’s because of the full night’s dreamless sleep after the… _bat_ vision, or whatever it might have been, or maybe it’s just the fact he’s at his wit’s end and desperate to be done with this so it can finally, _finally_ be over, that he thinks of something he’s been careful to avoid thinking about.

Or, to be exact, some _one_.

“What about Gordon?” he says at breakfast, picking at his French toast.

Oswald narrows his eyes. “What _about_ Gordon?” he echoes.

“We’ve considered and exhausted about every angle we could think of for taking down Galavan, but what if we get law enforcement involved? Because the last time I checked, blackmailing someone into eliminating one’s opposing candidates is very much illegal. Even in Gotham,” Ed says and when Oswald doesn’t reply, shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “And, much as I hate to admit it, Gordon is both capable enough and suitable for the job. Hence my suggestion.”

Then again, maybe it _was_ a stupid idea, judging by the way he can almost hear the cogs in Oswald’s head turning.

How would they even get Gordon to agree to this?

Ed braces himself for the inevitable outburst, increasingly rarely directed at his person but the memory of which still stings. Almost subconsciously, his hand goes to his neck and the small sliver of a scar that serves as a reminder from the night at the apartment.

“Ed,” Oswald says, and his heart skips a beat. “You’re a–”

Oh dear. Here it comes.

“–genius,” Oswald finishes.

Ed blinks a few times. “What?”

“I can’t believe I didn’t think of this before,” Oswald says and there’s a spark in his eyes that Ed hasn’t seen in a while. “Hit Galavan from both sides, humiliate him _thoroughly_.” He smiles, bright and hopeful, before fixing his gaze on Ed. “A brilliant idea as always, my dear friend.”

Ed does his best not to preen under the unexpected praise.

Needless to say, he’s not very successful.

 

***

 

Oswald is coming to realize that Ed’s newfound confidence in his identity, or at least in his place in the underworld, following the bank heist has the added side-effect of bringing out his desire for attention.

Which, to be fair, isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but once it starts to interfere with their work on defeating Galavan…

Well. He’s not happy about it, but he supposes Ed has a point. They want attention, yes, but the right kind. And what Ed is currently proposing would delegitimize any action they take afterwards, which means the added trouble of even trying to contact the cops would be empty work.

“We’re not publicly kidnapping James Gordon,” he says for what feels like the hundredth time that day. They’re sitting in the library, killing time before Oswald has to meet with the representatives of the families – an unpleasant chore, if he’s being honest, but he’d known what he was getting into long before he even made the decision to betray Fish Mooney what seems like a lifetime ago.

Ed’s face falls, again, and it’s like he’s not even trying to listen.

Oswald takes a deep breath. “I know you hate him after what happened with… with your arrest. I must confess I’m not particularly fond of the man myself,” it rings true now, but for a long time, it was a lie he kept telling himself, but the past bears little consequence now, “but kidnapping him is not the way to do this. Most of the police force in this town might be stupid, but there are a few dangerous ones, ones that can and will pose a threat to everything we’re trying to accomplish. And you know how Bullock is – the man is like a bloodhound if Gordon’s in danger.”

Ed nods reluctantly.

“However,” Oswald says, picking a stray piece of lint from his suit. “If you must, you can… procure Gordon yourself. But you _can’t_ make a public production out of it.”

“But that would defeat the purpose,” Ed argues, pinching the bridge of his nose under his glasses. “What good is doing it if nobody knows it was me? I _want_ them to know it was me, if only to prove to them how powerless they are against someone such as myself. You know that.”

“But you don’t want to get _caught_ for it,” Oswald replies, and Ed nods again. “And as long as you’re on the roster for Arkham’s most wanted…”

Ed scoffs, as if the very thought is offensive. “As if any of them could figure out who I am. You know most people in this city have the attention span of a goldfish, the police very much included.”

“And that can work to our advantage,” Oswald says, shrugging. “Besides, I do have an inkling for an idea of how to… clear your name, so to speak.”

“The appellate court? I’ve considered the possibility but found it deficient,” Ed replies, cocking his head ever so slightly.

“I was thinking something more local,” Oswald says with a smile. “I have connections. Let’s say some new evidence surfaces from the crimes, or the eye-witness recants his statement, or there are irregularities discovered after the fact in the evidence against you. To err is human and all that, and with a _favorable_ judge, a verdict can be easily annulled.”

Ed smiles. “Devious,” he says, his grin growing wider.

Oswald shrugs, smiling. “One notices a few handy loopholes in the legal system if one is running the criminal underworld. Charges can be unstuck even after the fact. But, and I must stress this, it _will_ take some time.”

“If I can truly have my freedom once more, it will mean the world to me. And you’ve already done so much for me, Oswald. I don’t know if there’s any way I can pay you back,” Ed says, looking like he truly means it.

He can’t possibly think…

“Ed, you need to do nothing of the sort. I would be lost without you,” Oswald says and it seems to placate Ed somewhat, although he doesn’t look completely convinced.

For someone as boisterous and smug as Ed can be, he’s also surprisingly insecure – yet another thing that Oswald can’t help but love about him.

The man is, quite literally, an enigma.

 

***

 

Using chloroform to knock out Jim Gordon in an alleyway on his way home to kidnap him is firmly on the list of Ed’s most uninspiring crimes, but…

As much as he hates to admit it, Ed knows Oswald was right.

They can’t afford for him to be caught, not now when they’re so close to their goal.

So, he bites back the disappointment and drags Gordon into the back of the town car – courtesy of the Van Dahl estate – before getting into the driver’s seat and heading back to the manor.

The drive passes quickly, peppered with the occasional glance into the rearview mirror to check that Gordon is still unconscious. Because while Ed is in disguise – foregoing his glasses in favor of the contact lenses he’d used during the bank job, a new haircut, courtesy of Olga’s deft but firm hand, and a garish outfit – and he’s calculated and recalculated the appropriate dosage three times, plenty of variables remain.

However, as he pulls into the driveway of the house, it seems that all has gone to plan – Gordon’s still out like a light, and Zsasz and two of his henchwomen are waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs.

“He put up a fight?” Zsasz asks once Ed has exited the car.

“Have a guess,” he says, waving towards the backseat where the man in question is slumped over, unmarred except for the speck of mud on his cheek.

Zsasz laughs that strange, almost barking laugh of his. “That’s a no, then. Ladies,” he says and motions for them to fetch Gordon. They comply, even though the taller one shoots him a confused look.

“You sure he’s alive, Vic?” she asks, her voice raspy but strangely pleasant.

Zsasz rolls his eyes. “Nygma’s a… not a pro, but c’mon. Have a little faith.”

The woman shrugs and goes to help her companion.

“Is everything ready?” Ed asks once the ladies have gotten Gordon propped up between them. They’re surprisingly strong – between the two of them, it’s as if they’re not lugging around an adult man at all but merely having a pleasant walk.

“Yup,” Zsasz replies, holding the front door open for the girls. “Boss was very specific about it, too.”

“Good,” Ed says, and that’s that. He follows the trio – well, the quartet, really, but he doesn’t think an unconscious Gordon counts as more than, say, a duffle bag – into the house. The heavy front door falls shut behind him, and a quick glance back proves that Olga is already locking it.

“Mr. Penguin wait upstairs in library,” she tells him briskly, tucking the keyring into her apron once she’s done with the locks. She doesn’t look at him directly, which is a bit unnerving. He knows she doesn’t like him very much, but he’s never managed to figure out _why_.

But, Ed supposes, it doesn’t matter anyway, so he nods his thanks and Olga turns away with a huff, probably on her way to the dining room to clean up after the meeting with the families. For a moment, Ed wonders how it went, but figures Oswald will tell him later, so there’s no point in dawdling any longer.

Zsasz and his henchwomen are already halfway up the stairs by the time he catches up with them, reaching into the chest pocket of his coat for the domino mask.

 

***

 

They’d decided not to tie Gordon up after a tense conversation on the matter – Ed had been adamant that they should, if only to make sure he doesn’t try and make a break for it, while Oswald had reasoned that tying him up only to ask for his help would be ridiculous. In the end, it had taken half an hour of bargaining and several cups of tea plus a fair amount of the peppermint and chocolate cookies Ed likes before they’d resolved the issue.

Now that the time has come, Oswald waits in the library, dressed in his second-best suit and for all intents and purposes, ready for the battle. Once he hears the front door close, it’s go-time. He stands up, straightens the lapels of his suit and dims the lights, enough to see by but little enough that it’s hard to tell the size of the room – or how many people it may contain.

It’s perhaps a bit on the dramatic side, but honestly? In Gotham, that is the norm.

The door finally opens and Ed steps in, domino mask already in place, followed by Zsasz’s henchwomen dragging an unconscious Jim Gordon between the two of them with Zsasz himself bringing up the rear.

As agreed, the women deposit Gordon on one of the armchairs.

It’s almost funny, looking at him, this man who’d meant so much to him without ever giving anything in return – he’d saved Oswald’s life, once, but that was a long time ago. And it doesn’t come as a surprise that the fire in Oswald’s belly that had been there before when seeing him isn’t there anymore. It’s more of a relief, if anything.

How blind he had been, back in the day.

Oswald chuckles quietly as everyone but the taller of Zsasz’ henchwomen take their seats – Oswald himself in the middle of the sofa opposite the armchair, Ed at the piano bench on his left, furthest from the light but close enough that he can still observe the proceedings, and Zsasz and the remaining henchwoman somewhere behind Oswald’s sofa. Most likely leaning on the shelves in a somewhat threatening manner, if Oswald knows Zsasz.

The taller henchwoman – Oswald isn’t sure what her name is; he’s never seen her before and Zsasz seems to rotate his companions according to some timetable Oswald doesn’t care to observe or to understand – opens a tiny flask of smelling salts in front of Gordon’s rather substantial nose.

The man bolts upright after a moment or so, and the henchwoman closes the flask, slipping it into her pocket before taking her place next to Zsasz, just out of Oswald’s eyeline.

Showtime.

“Penguin,” Jim growls, squinting at him in the low light before glancing around the room. “And company.”

Time to ramp up the charm.

Oswald smiles, perfectly pleasant, before shrugging sheepishly.

“What is this about, then,” Jim asks, extending none of the pleasantries. Then again, Oswald can’t blame him – he’d be grumpy, too, if he’d been kidnapped. Mostly furious, if he’s being honest, but grumpy, too.

“I would like to extend a proposal for cooperation,” Oswald says.

Jim narrows his eyes, crossing his arms. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t arrest you for the assault and kidnapping of a police officer.”

“Jim. You and I, we share a bond in Theo Galavan,” Oswald says and Jim’s eyes widen almost comically at the man’s name. “A passion, even. If there ever was a time for us to work together, _now_ is that time.”

“What do you know about Galavan?” Jim asks, leaning forward in the armchair.

“Now, now, old friend,” Oswald tuts. “Not before you agree.”

“Fine, fine,” Jim says, eyes keen and trained on Oswald’s. It’s not as piercing a gaze as he remembers, somehow, Jim’s eyes too pale and… boring, even. He almost wants to laugh. “Tell me what you know.”

“Galavan is dangerous,” Oswald says, shrugging. “But you already know that. I’m guessing the whole department knows how crooked he is, but you don’t have enough proof to make any charges stick, do you?”

Jim nods, reluctantly.

Oswald glances towards Ed, who is watching him intently. He gives a small nod, and Ed returns it, accompanied by a tiny smile.

The crackle of a thunderstorm rolling in adds even more dramatic tension to the moment.

 “I might be able to change that,” he says, turning back to Jim.

Oh, how he’s missed this.

 

***

 

All in all, it takes a week.

The arrest is made four days in, _Gotham Gazette_ is reporting record sales by the sixth, and while Galavan is being transported from the holding cells at the station to await trial at Blackgate on the seventh day, they strike.

Well, _they_ in the loosest sense of the word, because Ed is mostly just along for the ride. Because Oswald had insisted on personally overseeing Galavan’s retrieval, and Ed has been itching to see him at work like this from the day they’d first met.

Most of the organizational parts are his own doing, too, from the plan to hit while they’re transporting the man – it had been easy enough to arrange a few bribes for a select official or two who could provide the intel about the vehicle, as well as the name of the driver. Everything after that had been child’s play, mostly a matter of creating a timely distraction in the form of a bomb at the anniversary party of the Gotham Museum.

Which leads them to the riverside, alone once the driver has received the address of the building where his family is being held captive by Zsasz and the ladies.

Ed hangs back, letting Oswald take the stage; it’s _his_ long-awaited revenge, after all.

It’s only after the first shot from Oswald’s handgun hits that Galavan seems to realize that no help is coming, that he’s truly going to die here, alone and undignified, devoid of any power he’d held in the city.

Although, to be fair, Ed has to give the man points for his tenacity: even as the wound on his calf is steadily oozing blood, he remains upright.

Oswald takes the second shot, hitting his other leg, and Galavan lurches forward, dropping to his knees as his legs give out. Blood pools around him on the sand, almost black in the low light.

Oswald hands the gun over to Ed, turns away and picks up the baseball bat from the trunk of the car, taking his time.

A small part of Ed wants to look away, knowing what’s to come. He ignores it, keeps his eyes and the gun trained on Galavan, watching for even the smallest twitch in the wrong direction.  He watches as Oswald walks over with the baseball bat, watches as blow after blow lands, watches Galavan’s skin break and blossom with blood.

The man says something that Ed can’t hear, probably begging for death, and Oswald only laughs in response, the hollow sound drifting through the cool spring air around them. 

The knife for the final act is retrieved once Galavan is a shuddering mess on the sand, more a pile of minced meat than a human being.

Ed can’t bring himself to feel sorry for the man.

With a hiss, Oswald, now covered with specks of blood, plunges the knife into Galavan’s back, somewhere between the fifth and sixth rib by the looks of it, the motion unnervingly elegant despite its cruelty.

A spurt of blood follows once the knife is removed.

The knife is reapplied, then removed again.

Reapplied, removed again, this time for good.

Ed puts the gun away and goes to stand next to Oswald.

It’s quiet tonight, the only sounds the lapping of the water against the riverbank, faraway traffic from the highway out of town, and the tiny, almost imperceptible gurgles that Galavan’s body is producing in exsanguination. Or maybe it’s his ragged attempts at breathing through collapsed lungs. It’s impossible to tell.

In any case, they wait until the sound ceases before Ed calls Zsasz for the cleanup.

Oswald is silent beside him, eyes trained on Galavan’s corpse but eerily vacant.

After he’s done with the call – a few quick words, really, nothing else; Zsasz already knew the location – Ed touches his shoulder.

Oswald starts, tearing his eyes away from the corpse to look at Ed.

In a quiet voice, he mutters, “I always thought I’d feel better, after.”

He doesn’t say anything else.

“It’s okay. It’s over now,” Ed says and takes ahold of his arm to tug him gently towards the car. “You just need time to process it.”

Oswald nods, but doesn’t look very convinced at all.

 

***

 

Another week passes before the lawyer Oswald’s discreetly hired to take on Ed’s case gets back to them. It seems that the old platitude rings true: enough money can make even the most inconvenient of problems disappear.

Of course, added help to their case had been provided by the mysterious disappearance of Strange, director of the asylum at the time, leaving behind plenty of discrepancies in the paperwork of the institute. And that’s without even mentioning the illegal Indian Hill compound in the basement, which had been packed away the same night they got out.

After all, the law is flexible in Gotham.

The certificate of sanity Ed had gotten once the process was done and the second psychological evaluation had been done looks... official. And for what they paid for it, it should.

 _The Gotham Board of Health and Hygiene states that Edward Nygma, having passed all the mandated tests and by the laws of Gotham City, is hereby declared sane,_ displayed in fancy cursive, accompanied by the signature of the newly assigned director of the asylum, a Quincy Sharp.

Frankly, even the idea of a sanity certificate had been hilarious at first, but what it represents...

In all honesty, Oswald would’ve shelled out a lot more money for that.

Because Ed is free of Arkham in the legal sense of the word, free to walk the streets by his side and free to take his rightful place as Oswald’s right-hand man. And that is worthy of celebration, which is why Friday night finds them getting ready to head out into the city.

Well, _would_ find them heading out, if Oswald wasn’t having trouble deciding what to wear. It’s a momentous occasion, so he should dress accordingly – he knows Ed is, with the custom-tailored green suit Oswald gave him as a thank-you gift for his help with Galavan.

The problem, as he sees it, is finding something for himself.

The suit itself is a no-brainer; the problem, as he sees it, lies in finding the perfect accessories. He’s kept the tie pin from the night back at the apartment, stored away in the drawer of his nightstand – so that’s taken care of. The ruby inlay calls for something complementary, but what?

Chevron is too dull, houndstooth lacks formality, brocade might come off as trying too hard, simple stripes and solid colors as irritatingly pedestrian. And that’s without even mentioning the gingham, a fleeting thought he’d discarded quicker than it occurred to him.

It’s hopeless.

Absolutely hopeless.

His leg is starting to cramp up from standing for too long, so he casts a final glare at the tie drawer and sits down on the ottoman at the foot of his bed to wallow in his misery.

And to think he’d been planning to confess his feelings to Ed tonight.

He’d gone so far as to prepare a speech, which he’d practiced and practiced until the words became almost mechanical, spilling from his lips with ease.

His moping is unjustly interrupted by a knock on the door, and he snaps for whoever it is that he’s busy.

Ed’s voice replies something from the other side of the door and Oswald gets up to open the door, perhaps a bit too quickly because there’s a stinging pain in his bad knee.

“Oh, hi,” he says, trying to ignore the increasing warmth in his cheeks.

“Are you ready to go?” Ed asks before checking his watch. “It’s already seven and our reservation is for eight thirty. I’ve allocated an hour for travel time, plus half an hour to spare, so we should get going.”

“Just a moment. I… I can’t decide between these two ties,” Oswald says quickly, acutely aware of his blush getting even worse.

 _What_ is going on with him?

He hobbles over to the tie drawer and grabs the first two ties he can see, a purple brocade and a ghastly aquamarine paisley. He takes a deep, calming breath before turning around and holding them out for inspection.

“I’m partial to the purple,” Ed says, eyeing the paisley nightmare with distaste and stepping closer to take the other. Gently as can be, he drapes it around Oswald’s neck and steps away to inspect the result.

“Striking,” Ed says, and the single word is enough for the lump in Oswald’s throat to double in size.

“It brings out my eyes,” he replies and mentally kicks himself.

_It brings out my eyes._

_It brings out my eyes._

This is a nightmare.

That’s the only possible explanation.

He’s known Ed for months.

Why is it only now that he seems to be incapable of functioning around him?

It’s _Ed_.

Ed is safe.

Ed is wonderful.

Ed is… looking at him. And smiling.

Oswald stares back, trying to think of something to say.

Maybe he should…

Maybe he should do the speech now. It certainly seems like the right time.

“Ed. There’s something important I’ve been meaning to–“ he starts just as there’s another knock on the door.

“–tell you.”

He’s going to kill whoever is behind that door.

Ed glances at him, a hint of confusion in his eyes, before going to open the door.

It’s Olga, looking sullen as ever.

She narrows her eyes at Ed, then looks at Oswald, standing in the middle of the room in his shirt-sleeves with the purple tie still loosely around his neck, and narrows her eyes some more.

“What is it?” Oswald snaps, irritation and nerves working themselves into a spectacular headache.

“Rude little _devushka_ downstairs. Say ‘have to talk to Mr. Penguin’,” Olga says.

“Whoever it is, tell her I’m busy,” Oswald replies, raising his eyebrows. They’d talked about this. Olga knows how important tonight is.

“Broke in. I tell her: leave, she say ‘have to talk to Mr. Penguin’. Threaten police, she say ‘have to talk to Mr. Penguin’,” Olga answers with a huff. After a beat, she mutters under her breath: “ _Neposlushnaya devushka_.”

Ed and Oswald exchange a look.

“Agile on my feet, I drive dogs mad. I flick my tail when I'm angry and hum when I'm glad,” Ed says.

“You don’t think…”

“It’s most likely her. All the key characteristics are there, anyhow.”

Fair enough.

“We’ll be down soon,” Oswald tells Olga, and with a few deft movements, fixes up the tie still dangling from his neck.

Olga nods, narrows her eyes at Ed again – _what_ is her problem today? – and after a moment’s hesitation, nods again, turns, and closes the door behind her.

“What were you going to tell me?” Ed asks once she’s gone, the look of mild confusion on his face once more.

Oswald laughs awkwardly. “It’s… I don’t remember. Slipped my mind, it seems. Don’t you hate it when that happens?”

“That never happens to me,” Ed replies, frowning.

Right.

“Honestly? I can believe that. Hand me my jacket, will you?”

Ed frowns some more, but decides to let the matter drop and picks up the jacket to hand it over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> olga has better shit to do than to deal with these emotionally stunted losers tbh


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been four months and two days since i first started writing this story and i have to be honest: it's turned out nothing at all like i first planned it to be.  
> and maybe that's a good thing.  
> if you've stuck with me this far, from the bottom of my heart - thank you.

Just as Ed had expected, Selina is waiting downstairs.

She doesn’t look particularly happy to be there, eyes trained on the landing and her feet on the table, leaning back in her chair precariously enough that a part of Ed wonders whether she’d topple over if spooked.

Probably not – cats always land on their feet, after all.

The question, as he sees it, is whether this one fits the mold.

But that theory must be tested at some later time, because she spots him as soon as he steps into the room.

“I thought asparagus was a vegetable, not an aesthetic,” she says, a tiny sliver of a smile playing at the corner of a mouth.

 _Like she’s the one to talk aesthetics with her tattered jacket and worn-out boots_ , a part of Ed whispers. _I doubt she even knows what the word means_.

Another part of him registers the smile that accompanied the words and decides they were most likely intended as a joke, not an insult.

Then again, the best jokes are often concealed insults.

“The suit was a gift. An expensive one, too. And _I_ thought cats were supposed to be good at sneaking around,” Ed replies once he’s chosen the best way to approach the situation.

He can’t expect Selina to reach his level, so he’ll acquiesce to address her on hers.

It seems to work because Selina only shrugs, smile growing wider. “I tried knocking. The old crone wouldn’t let me in, so I took matters into my own hands. Too bad I didn’t consider she’d be so spry for her old age, but hey. Another lesson learned.”

“How _did_ you get in?” Ed asks, crossing his arms. It seems unlikely that they’ve left a weakness in the security of the house, but if a _teenager_ can break in, chances are they’ve overlooked something.

Selina pretends not to hear the question, instead peering around Ed’s shoulder.

“Where’s Penguin?” she asks once she has determined the man has yet to enter the room.

“Still upstairs, getting ready. We’re going out,” Ed explains, and peers at his watch. “Well, _were_ going out. It’s becoming unlikely that we’ll make it to the restaurant on time now that you’re here.”

Selina grins knowingly, ignoring the accusation in Ed’s tone. “Date night, huh?”

 _If only_ , the traitorous part of Ed’s mind suggests. _How could someone like him want you? Well, **us**. But mostly you. It doesn’t stop you from dreaming, though, does it? Late at night when the house is empty and you’re all alone… _

Ed shakes his head to dispel _that_ particular train of thought and has to remind himself that getting mad at himself is… questionable, to say the least. And it’s useless to debate anything with Selina, so he elects to not respond to the insinuation at all.

“Why are you here, Selina?” he asks instead.

“I have information. For a price, of course. But I want to talk to _Penguin_ ,” Selina says, narrowing her eyes at him. “Not his boy toy.”

And Ed had thought they’d been getting on rather well.

“I can pay you, and if your information is what I suspect it is, it concerns me more than it does him,” Ed replies, crossing his arms. “And I’m _not_ his boy toy.”

Whatever Selina is about to say is cut off by the sound of a door falling shut upstairs and familiar lurching footsteps.

Seems it doesn’t matter now.

Selina will get what she wants, after all.

They wait patiently until Oswald emerges, appearance impeccable as always, the purple tie Ed had recommended tied snugly around his neck, the color accentuating his already intense eyes, further emphasized by a hint of eyeliner.

 _Striking_ , indeed.

It almost makes him want to discard every plan he’s made, every thought about leaving which still plagues his mind and just… _stay_.

Stay here, where for the first time in his life he feels that he belongs.

Stay here, where there is something more than a cold shoebox of an apartment or a tiny cell in a place where the cacophonous screams of lunatics ring through the halls, both filled with aching loneliness.

Stay here, with Oswald, even if the visions of lives not lived that haunt him day and night eventually drive him insane.

If he isn’t _already_ insane.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ed can see Selina pointedly raising an eyebrow at him.

He pretends not to notice.

 

***

 

Oswald hopes his annoyance isn’t showing.

He’ll be damned if he’ll repeat his parents’ mistakes – no, one way or another, he knows what he wants and what needs to be done to attain that. And what he wants is currently leaning against the wall about ten feet away, clad in a bespoke green suit and looking at him with a cryptic expression.

Oswald allows himself to be distracted for a moment before returning his focus to the matter at hand.

Right.

He’s not angry with Selina, per se. If anything, he’s angry with what she represents: an unwelcome distraction on what is quite possibly the most important night of his life. And despite her terrible timing, Selina _is_ useful. Probably far more so than most people on his payroll, so he sets aside his annoyance and smiles before greeting her.

“I heard you guys were on your way to a date, so I’ll make this quick,” the girl says and Oswald can feel his cheeks reddening.

It’s not a date.

Not yet, anyway.

Although, to be honest, he doesn’t really know what a date is supposed to be, anyway. In the old movies he’d watched with his mother when he was younger, dates had included flowers and gifts and expensive meals and soulful declarations and kisses, which seems about right.

Then again, they’d also included women, an element missing entirely from his situation.

“What is it, then?” Oswald asks, stepping closer.

“Money first,” Selina says. “Then I’ll talk.”

Oswald has to bite back the less-than-savory words that threaten to escape his mouth and takes a deep, calming breath.

“Fine,” he says. “But it _better_ be good. How much?”

“Five hundred,” she replies, quick as a whip.

He rolls his eyes as he hands the sum over.

Selina accepts the bank notes and stuffs them into the pocket of her jacket. “Pleasure doing business with you. Anyway, you know Sonny?”

“Butch Gilzean’s nephew? I’ve heard of him,” Oswald says, unsure of where she’s going with this. Sonny Gilzean is but a tiny cog in the great machine of Gotham, not particularly noteworthy aside from his familial affiliations. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, I may have _accidentally_ overheard Sonny talk about his uncle,” Selina says, the smug little smirk on her face saying her overhearing said conversation was anything but an accident. “Well, _brag_ , more like. But the point is, I know you’ve got beef with Butch. And I might know where he is.”

“ _Might_?” Ed pipes up, turning to face her. “You wanted five hundred dollars for a ‘ _might’_?”

Oswald shares the sentiment.

Selina shrugs. “Be glad I didn’t ask for more. Anyway, as far as I know he’s holed up somewhere in Otisburg with Tabitha Galavan.”

“Galavan as in…” Oswald starts, hints of something important that has lain dormant thus far tugging at the edges of his memory, waiting to be set free.

Selina looks at him for a moment, frowning ever so slightly. “Yeah, the ex-mayor’s sister? Apparently, they had a massive fight a little while before he was arrested. Probably about him trying to kill Bruce Wayne, but I’m just guessing. Anyway, she left and Butch took her in.”

Oswald glances towards Ed, who is decidedly not meeting his gaze.

He _knew_.

He _knew_ that Galavan had a sister, and he never said anything.

It’s a knife to the back, a bullet to the clavicle, a baseball bat to the knee. It’s betrayal, it’s anger, it’s hurt – all hinging on a sliver of obscured information.

 _Why_ didn’t Ed say anything?

It doesn’t make sense – or maybe it does, maybe there is an explanation.

There is a chance he might be wrong about this, might be misjudging the look of well-concealed guilt on Ed’s face.

 _Perhaps Ed didn’t know Tabitha’s role in his mother’s death, after all_ , he thinks even as his heart tells him otherwise.

 “Right. Well. See ya,” Selina says, hopping out of the chair that Oswald had forgotten she was in in the first place.

She’s out of the house before either can stop her – not that they try.

 

***

 

So much for their nice evening.

The sound of the front door closing feels like the final nail being hammered into his coffin.

Ed braces himself for the inevitable storm.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead, Oswald simply asks what the time is, and Ed checks his watch.

“It’s half past seven,” he says and Oswald nods.

“It’ll be close, but we can still make the reservation,” Oswald says and turns to head out the door.

Ed doesn’t move.

Is he…

He _must_ know.

It had been apparent in the way his brow had furrowed once he heard the name of Galavan’s sister. And yet, where Ed expects a flurry of rage and disappointment, nothing arrives. Either he’s wrong and Oswald doesn’t know, or he does and is planning his revenge.

Neither seem like a particularly good option.

“Ed? Are you coming?” Oswald asks from somewhere down the hallway, shaking him out of his train of thought.

Right.

Ed follows.

 

***

 

If it was anyone else, Oswald would relish watching them squirm.

With Ed, however…

The conversation is tense and stilted at the dinner, nervousness making Ed spout even more riddles than usual – but it has the unintended effect of diluting the flood of disappointment in Oswald’s veins and replacing it with affection.

And oh, how _pathetic_ that is.

Because despite everything, despite Ed doing the one thing Oswald had asked him not to do what seems like a lifetime ago, he cannot find it in himself to feel the rage he’s accustomed to feeling when looking at someone who has failed him.

And that makes Ed dangerous, far more so than any gun or knife or drug.

 _When you know what a man loves, you know what can kill him._ _Your greatest passion becomes your greatest weakness,_ he’d told Frankie Carbone in a previous life, long before he ever met Ed for the first time.

He’d known his own weakness back then, and had it stolen from him with the glint of a dagger. And he’d gotten past that, somehow, had learned to look back on his mother’s memory with joy instead of sorrow, and been invincible.

But what Oswald hadn’t expected, what he’d never even considered, was that once one weakness is gone, another might take its place – and that he wouldn’t be able to find it in himself to be angry about it.

Because he _should_ be angry, should know by now that for someone like him, love can only be and will ever be a weakness. But even he, for all the power he has, for all that he holds the city in the palm of his hand, can’t control that most elusive of human emotions.

But perhaps he doesn’t have to.

Because _this_ is the one weakness he can turn into a strength.

Somehow.

“So, about Tabitha…” Ed starts, pulling him from his thoughts.

He doesn’t say anything for a while, so Oswald waves at a passing waiter and orders another bottle of wine.

Ed looks more than a little bit like he’s about to run for the hills, eyes wide and nervous, hands set on the table in front of him to conceal their minute shaking. If Oswald didn’t know what to look for, it would fool him.

But they know each other far too well for ruses such as that to work.

“I know,” Oswald says simply, even though he doesn’t.

But it seems to be enough to prompt Ed to confess his sins, whatever they may be.

“I’ve failed you. From the bottom of my heart, I apologize. I should’ve told you about her, but I just…” Ed blurts out, trying to conceal the shaking of his hands now by wringing them together and apart.

Oswald waves his hand. “It’s forgotten. Don’t worry about it,” he says, the words leaving his mouth before he realizes that he actually means them. It’s still a bit surprising, even after all this time, to know that whatever Ed may do, he’ll forgive him.

Dangerous, too, because he’s never felt quite like this before.

And Ed stares at him with the same cryptic expression he’d had back at the house. It seems ordinary on his face by now, something new that has become as familiar as the sharpness of his gaze or the glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

Briefly, Oswald wonders how many other little things there are to discover about him.

“Are you sure?” Ed asks eventually, and seems to look not at Oswald but into him, down to the deepest parts of who he is.

Oswald tries his best not to fidget under the intense scrutiny.

“Everyone makes mistakes,” he says, shrugging before reaching out for his wine glass.

Ed frowns but doesn’t push the matter further.

 

***

 

Perhaps things aren’t as bad as Ed thought they were, after all.

With that unpleasantness out of the way, the rest of the dinner goes relatively smoothly. But he can tell Oswald’s mind is elsewhere – because at this point, it’s become almost his job to notice the shifts in the other’s mood and adjust accordingly.

“You’re still thinking about it,” he says once they’re halfway through dessert. It’s opera cake with tart raspberry mousse, overall a bit on the richer side than Ed would prefer, but it _is_ good. Probably not for his waistline in the long run, but an indulgence every now and then won’t hurt.

Oswald looks at him, brow creased. “About who?”

“Galavan’s sister. I know that look,” Ed says and he does, knows the precise way Oswald’s mouth turns and his eyes narrow when he’s thinking about someone he wants dead.

Oswald offers a smile. “Guilty as charged.”

“What do you want to do about her, then?” Ed asks before taking another forkful of the cake.

“I _want_ to kill her. But perhaps she could be of more use alive,” Oswald replies, shrugging. He’s already finished his dessert, and the wineglass in his hand is being emptied at a spectacular rate.

“Because of Butch,” Ed says, eyes widening with understanding.

“Because of Butch,” Oswald grins in response.

A few phone calls, another bottle of wine, and the rest of Ed’s cake later, they’re en route to the hospital in Coventry where Tabitha Galavan is being treated for injuries sustained in an _unfortunate_ traffic collision.

She’ll live, probably – even though Ed doesn’t particularly care either way. As long as she’s out of the way (meaning: out of Oswald’s mind), it’s fine by Ed. She never did anything to him, anyway; his only dislike for her is on Oswald’s behalf.

Finding and accessing the correct room is a simple question of a well-placed bribe, made simpler by the fact they don’t need to enter the room itself, per se, just the attached waiting area.

However, as they’re waiting the elevator that will take them to the correct floor, Ed spots a familiar face exiting the door to the geriatrics ward. He’s wearing different clothes, but it’s unquestionably the same boy.

Well, same _young man_ , who looks more or less the same as Ed remembers him being: the same ghost-white skin, the same sand-colored hair in desperate need of a good trim, the same lanky limbs and blank expression.

_(I was crucified to keep murders out of the maize. What am I?)_

The elevator dings.

Oswald steps in, the bouquet of yellow carnations they’d picked up on the way hanging loosely in his hand.

Ed hesitates.

“Ed? Is something wrong?” Oswald asks once he realizes Ed didn’t enter the elevator with him, leaning forward to put his arm in between the doors so they don’t close on them mid-sentence.

Ed shakes his head. “Everything is fine, I just… I have to say hello to someone. An old friend. Will you be okay dealing with Butch alone?”

“ _Ed_. I was dealing with people far worse than Butch long before I met you,” Oswald says, raising an eyebrow, although the look in his eyes says he’s more surprised than displeased by the question. “Don’t worry about me.”

Right.

He _is_ the Penguin, after all.

“I’ll wait here, then,” Ed replies, glancing at the registration desk where Jonathan is having a hushed conversation with the receptionist over some paperwork. He hasn’t disappeared just yet, it seems.

Oswald nods his assent and draws his arm back, letting the elevator doors close. Ed watches the numbers on the display until they reach the correct floor before turning and going to have a seat on one of the uncomfortable, patchy chairs nearby.

He waits until Jonathan is finished with whatever he’s doing, a smile already tugging at the corners of his mouth. He’d liked Jonathan, back in the asylum, even before the whole Indian Hill infiltration plan – of which Jonathan had been an integral part, if he’s being honest.

“Hi, Jonathan. Long time no see,” he says as Jonathan approaches, standing up to shake his hand.

If the kid is at all surprised to see him, he doesn’t show it.

“Hello, Ed. Funny seeing you here,” Jonathan says, voice slightly less monotonous than Ed remembers it being.

“I’m visiting someone,” Ed says. “Well, I’m accompanying a friend who is visiting someone. I’d introduce you – I’m sure he’d love to meet you – but he already went upstairs.”

“You mean the Penguin, right?” Jonathan replies. “I saw you with him earlier.”

Ed smiles.

It would be interesting to see the two interact – Jonathan with his blank monotony, Oswald with emotion practically oozing out of his very being.

Fortunately, the night is still young.

“There’s a loose end that needs to be dealt with,” Ed says, shrugging. “You know how it is.”

Jonathan nods in response, moving slightly to the left to let a young couple pass.

“So, why are you here?” Ed asks once it becomes clear Jonathan isn’t going to carry on the conversation without some prompting.

It’s a curious thing, one that Ed hasn’t seen in anyone else he’s met so far in his life – Jonathan listens, participates in conversation happily enough, but rarely offers up anything simply for the sake of continuing said conversation.

Part of Ed wonders if it was the exposure to the chemical cocktail his father had doused him with that caused it, or if he’s just always been this way.

“My great-grandmother had an accident,” Jonathan says, voice devoid of anything suggesting a reaction towards said accident. “She died half an hour ago.”

“My condolences,” Ed says and Jonathan’s lips twitch.

“Thank you,” he says, a tiny spark in his eyes as if remembering something funny.

Seems the lack of fear affects the processing of other emotions as well.

Fascinating.

 

***

 

Just as Oswald had expected, Butch is sitting in the waiting room, chewing his nails.

The filthy traitor jumps up the moment he sees Oswald entering, hand going to where there should be a hidden gun. “ _You_ ,” Butch says, eyes wide and face panicked once he realizes the gun isn’t there, that he’s defenseless against the man standing across the room.

The progression of thought from apprehension to downright fear is delightful to watch.

“ _Me_ ,” Oswald replicates the inflection, smiling as patronizingly as he can. The bouquet is tucked neatly behind his back, allowing for a slight but agonizing delay in Butch’s already slow thought process as he tries to figure out why Oswald is there.

“I thought you were dead,” Butch says, narrowing his eyes.

“Don’t you watch the news anymore, Butch?” Oswald replies, smile still firmly in place. “I’ve been back for months.”

Butch swallows, the movement of his throat visible even from across the room.

“What do you want?” he asks, tone laced with tension and contempt.

Oswald steps closer, close enough that he can see a small bead of sweat running down Butch’s temple, before revealing the bouquet.

Ed had picked out the flowers, citing something about the Victorians and flower language – apparently, yellow carnations signal disappointment. Which seems about fitting, now that Oswald is looking at his former right-hand man.

“I heard about poor Tabby,” he says, looking Butch right in the eye and smiling sweetly. “I came to offer my condolences.”

Oswald watches as the few cogs in Butch’s mind turn until they _ping_ to a conclusion, and by the way his eyes widen, it seems he’s arrived at the correct one.

“ _You_ did this to her,” Butch says, hand still hovering near the pocket. “You’re here to gloat.”

Bingo.

 _Seems the gorilla has a brain somewhere in that big skull, after all_ , a voice that sounds an awful lot like Ed’s says somewhere in the back of his mind.

Oswald smiles again. “Yes and no. I’m here to tell you I can do so much more than a little bit of grievous bodily harm. I mean, look at what happened to her poor brother. But if you want to keep Tabby by your… _sizeable_ side, you need to do exactly what I tell you to do. Or I’ll kill her. Either way, the choice is yours.”

Butch thinks for a moment.

“Okay,” he says tentatively. “Shoot.”

What a poor choice of words.

Oswald does his best not to laugh.

“I’m sure you’ve heard of a man called Hugo Strange,” he says.

Butch nods, confusion written plain across his features.

“Find him.”

“That’s it?” Butch asks, frowning as if he can’t believe Oswald’s request would be that simple.

“That’s it. Find him by the end of the week and I’ll let dear Ms. Galavan live. That is, unless she dies of her own volition,” Oswald says, handing over the bouquet. “But I can’t be held accountable for that.”

Butch takes the flowers, almost on auto-pilot, still frowning.

“You want me to find someone in three days?” he asks, still holding the flowers as if he doesn’t know what to do with them.

Oswald hopes he’ll find the greeting card. _That_ had been Ed’s idea, adding the slightest bit of insult to injury, and it had delighted him to no end.

“Two days,” Oswald says. “It’s Friday night already, or did you forget?”

 

***

 

By the time Oswald gets back downstairs, Jonathan has gone.

Ed sits with his back to the wall, keeping an eye on the front door, lost in thought even as his eyes watch the people passing by with detached curiosity.

_After all, we're all standing at the edge of the abyss, paralyzed by fear. It’s the only thing standing between us and diving in._

Jonathan had said that, back at the asylum, and Ed had thought him odd for it. But perhaps the kid had had a point, after all – because he _has_ been afraid and continues to be so, no matter how much he reassures himself that even though he’s seen what might have been and/or what might be to come, even though there has been a harbor, a gun, a single bullet to the gut on a rainy afternoon and the ache of regret, that isn’t necessarily the way it _has_ _to_ be.

Because he’s different from the man he is in his dreams, unburdened by _his_ pain and heartache, unburdened by _his_ guilt. But perhaps most important of all, he knows how to avoid becoming _him_.

Which is wherein lies the problem.

Because even though they may be prophetic dreams, or visions, or simply strange dreams, they aren’t a guarantee that whatever course of action he takes will be a successful one – since the timelines he sees are sewn together with events that never took place in this life, there’s no telling what might come to pass.

But a part of him wonders, still.

“Who was your friend, then?” Oswald’s voice asks from somewhere near his shoulder.

Ed hadn’t even noticed the sound of the elevator. He turns to look and as he’d expected, Oswald is standing there, _sans_ bouquet.

“A young man I met back at the asylum. I don’t know if you remember him, but his name is Jonathan Crane. He… he helped me get into Indian Hill,” Ed says, standing up. “He’s part of the reason I found you. _This_ you.”

“We wouldn’t be here without him, if that’s the case. I’ll have someone send him a gift basket,” Oswald replies, the words curt but the soft smile playing at the corners of his mouth everything but.

“How was Butch?” Ed asks, only mildly disappointed that he hadn’t gotten to see the look on the man’s face himself. “Did he figure it out?”

Oswald laughs, a sharp and contrasting sound in the half-empty room. “He figured it out, all right. It’s taken care of, for now. Butch knows better than anyone that I keep my promises.”

“How much time did you give him?”

“What’s always coming but never arrives?” Oswald asks, the riddle rolling off his tongue like syrup. Yet another indulgence for a night full of them.

“Tomorrow,” Ed answers. “Is it enough?”

Oswald smiles. “The day after tomorrow, in this case. And it’ll have to be, if he wants to keep her alive.”

Either Butch finds Strange and saves Tabitha’s life for a little while longer while they get some answers, or he fails and Oswald gets his revenge. It’s a beautiful little trick, and Ed can’t help but admire Oswald for thinking of it. His own approach would’ve been perhaps cleaner but nowhere near as efficient – and Ed appreciates artful efficiency.

“Are you ready to go home?” Oswald asks after a moment, glancing at the clock above the registration desk that reads a little past eleven.

Home.

It sounds good, even if the night is still young.

And it will give Ed a chance to change his fate once and for all.

 

***

 

Once they’re back at the manor, they retreat to the downstairs drawing room with the fireplace purely out of habit.

Ed has been looking troubled ever since the hospital but insisting it’s nothing to worry about, which isn’t the mindset Oswald needs him to be in for what he’s about to do, but he supposes it’s as good a time as he’s going to get.

The mere thought of the speech he’d so carefully prepared sends his heart racing, now that there is both time and opportunity for it, the words ringing through his head with the clarity of a bell but melting on the tip of his tongue.

_My mother once told me, “Life only gives you one true love, Oswald. When you find it, run to it.”_

No, that was from an early draft. It was…

_A man comes to a crossroads in his life and he has to make a choice._

_Does he choose safety and cowardice?_

_Or does he opt for courage and risk everything?_

_I choose courage._

_So, here goes nothing…_

No, that’s not right.

_What I was trying to tell you tonight is that…_

_Is that…_

Even thinking of thinking the words seems to be too much; it’s a good thing he’s sitting down.

_Is that I love you._

His palms are starting to sweat. The light in the fireplace is too dim and too bright all at once, panic once again rising in his throat to close it up and make it hard to breathe. Or maybe it’s just the lack of air in the room, or the fact Ed is sitting but a few feet away – it’s hard to tell.

Oswald clears his throat. “Ed…” he starts, heart hammering at what feels like the speed of light as he finds himself wishing that he’d had more wine, or a cup of ginger tea like his mother used to make, or a bottle of vodka.

Something, anyway, to take the edge off.

Ed turns towards him, the light from the fireplace creating shifting shadows over his cheekbones.

“Remember when I said I had something important to tell you?” Oswald asks, mostly to buy himself some time to figure out how the hell to calm down. He’s never felt this weak before, not when Fish had broken his leg or the innumerable amount of beatings he’d endured back in school.

It’s nothing short of incredible that people submit themselves to this special kind of torture voluntarily.

“I remember,” Ed says, a tiny crease forming between his brows. “Will you tell me now?”

Oswald opens his mouth but no words come out.

 

***

 

Oswald looks a little bit like he’s going to cry.

Or run out of the room.

Whichever comes first.

And it’s new to Ed, another facet of him making its debut when Ed thinks he’s got everything figured out – and yet, it’s nothing new at the same time, fitting in with the rest of Oswald’s behavioral pattern well enough that Ed finds himself surprised he’d never expected it.

Because Oswald remains the same throughout his incarnations, anchored in who and what he is so firmly that even death cannot change it.

And Ed doesn’t know whether to admire or fear it, whether to be envious or worried of that stone-cold surety of self that is completely alien to him, having spent most of his life in fluctuating identities, easily taken on and just as easily discarded, never quite finding one that fits.

But perhaps he’s been thinking about it all wrong. Perhaps no matter how much he might want to, he can’t be who he is without help. And if there’s anyone he’s willing to accept or solicit said help from, it’s Oswald.

And right now, it seems like Oswald needs his help, too.

Ed is painfully aware that improvising isn’t always his strong suit, so he’ll adapt the primary plan of action to where they are now and not where he’d intended for them to be. In any case, what he needs is a distraction, something to take Oswald’s mind off whatever is bothering him, and redirect his attention elsewhere.

Placing his bets on emotion over reason is the best plan Ed can come up with on such short notice. In any case, it seems as good a time as he’s going to get, even if it isn’t exactly the way he’d pictured making his big confession.

Which is why, seeing as Oswald seems to be completely tongue-tied for the time being, he picks one of his favorite riddles, relaying the words he’s known by heart for years, keeping them buried deep until the right person comes along.

Oswald’s face falls the slightest bit once he figures out Ed’s asking him a riddle and it stings a little, that reaction, but at least he’s not vocalizing his disappointment. If he did, Ed’s pretty sure _he’d_ be the one to run for the hills. Because as long as it isn’t rejection, there remains a glimmer of hope.

 _Before a circle let appear twice twenty-five_ – the Roman numeral for fifty, which is L, before O – _and five in the rear_ – in a similar vein, V, or five, follows – _one fifth of eight subjoin_ – the word has five letters, one of which is E – _and then you'll quickly find what conquers men_ : love.

He just hopes Oswald understands.

 

***

 

“Before a circle let appear twice twenty-five, and five in the rear. One fifth of eight subjoin, and then you'll quickly find what conquers men,” Ed says softly, as if sharing a secret and not a riddle.

Why exactly Ed keeps insisting on these riddles, Oswald isn’t sure – while they’re endearing sometimes, Ed tends to blurt them out at inopportune moments when there’s far more important things that Oswald needs to think about, or talk about, derailing conversations and trains of thought.

And he supposes Ed has his quirks, just as Oswald himself does, which, if he’s being honest, doesn’t really change how he feels about Ed, but doesn’t mean he isn’t allowed to be annoyed with him every now and then, either. And Ed distracting him while he’s trying to confess his feelings for the first time in his life is, in his opinion, a good reason for being annoyed.

“I can give you another one if it’s too difficult,” Ed says quietly when Oswald doesn’t answer the riddle quickly enough, and where Oswald had, out of habit, expected condescension, there’s not even a hint of it when Ed says, “Please, Oswald. It’s important.”

“Fine, if you must,” Oswald replies, rubbing his temples.

“I can’t be bought, but I can be stolen with a glance. I’m worthless to one, but priceless to two. What am I?” Ed asks, waving his hands in a delicate pattern to punctuate the words. Oswald decides that since Ed won’t let the matter drop, he might as well give it a shot.

_I can’t be bought._

_But I can be stolen with a glance._

Not a material object, then.

And most likely not anything with material value.

A… a feeling, perhaps?

_Worthless to one._

_Priceless to two._

It’s…

But what has that got to do with…

Oh.

It’s as if all air has been punched out of his lungs with a sledgehammer.

 _Oh_.

“Do you give up?” Ed asks, and where Oswald has come to expect smug self-satisfaction, there is none.

 

***

 

It’s as if Ed’s suspended underwater.

Two riddles, one answer – it seems almost poetic, when he thinks about it.

And Oswald’s eyes are wide as saucers, his mouth hanging open the slightest bit as if he’s about to speak but no words come out. Whatever is stopping him from relinquishing the answer, it isn’t confusion – because there is understanding, in the dilation of his pupils and the soft line of his mouth, in the way the frown he’d been wearing moments before has been replaced with the starting hints of a smile.

“Do you give up?” Ed asks, a gentle prompt for the answer they both already know. Because while it’s an answer worth waiting for, Ed is not a patient man.

“Love,” Oswald finally, _finally_ breathes out, and the word seems to hover in the space between them, saturating the very room with a soft warmth.

“Correct,” Ed says, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and a flood of relief blossoming somewhere behind his ribs, because he was right. Because Oswald _understands_.

Despite their differences, or perhaps _because_ of them, he understands Ed in a way that no one else ever has – and isn’t that all he’s ever wanted? All that anyone ever wants? To be seen, to be understood by another, to stave off the ache of loneliness by finding someone to share it with?

And while _love_ by itself is unlikely to be the answer to everything, to what’s behind them and what’s yet to come, for now, it’s enough. Because Oswald is staring at him in wordless wonder, and it quiets the voice inside his head that says he’s not good enough – because the person who matters most seems to think he is.

“I told you once – before I met _you_ – that for some, love is a source of strength, but for us, it will always be our most crippling weakness. Perhaps I was a bit… erroneous in my conviction, back then,” Ed says, moving the slightest bit closer. “But I know the truth now.”

Oswald watches him with wide eyes, the firelight lending its soft glow to his features, illuminating them, adding color and softness to their harsh lines to elevate them to something otherworldly, reminiscent of a painting Ed saw at an art gallery a few years ago.

He’ll steal that and give it to him, he decides there and then, in the split second before he says the three words he knows will change everything. He’d steal the very stars from the sky, if Oswald asked him to.

Because while Ed isn’t sure if he believes in the fairytale-esque idea of _true love_ – if it _is_ real, then he’s had two by now, which seems the slightest bit excessive, if he’s being honest – he _does_ believe in fate.

Fate brought them together, and fate will be the only thing that can tear them apart; but fate hinges on the choices they make.

And by whatever higher power may exist in the endless depths of the Universe, Ed hopes he’s finally made the right one.

 

***

 

“I love you,” Ed says and at first, Oswald doesn’t register the words.

Then, in a landslide rush of relief and happiness, they finally hit home, nestle themselves somewhere behind his ribs where he knows they’ll stay until the day he dies.

If he was a religious man, Oswald would send out a quick prayer as a thank-you to whatever cosmic entity looks over them. After brief consideration, he does so anyway, because the deepest, most precious of his wishes has finally come true.

Ed loves him.

 _Ed_ loves him.

Ed loves _him_.

And he doesn’t know what to say.

But seeing the tiny hint of worry clouding Ed’s eyes when his reply is delayed finally gives him the boost of courage that he’s been missing.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to say as well,” Oswald tells him, moving closer until he’s half-sure he could count the flecks of gold and green in Ed’s irises if he wanted to. And there will be plenty of time to do that, further down the line. Because whatever may be waiting for them in the elusive future, they won’t have to witness it alone. “By which I mean – I love you, too.”

Ed’s answering smile is almost blinding. “I love you,” he says again,

“I love you,” Oswald repeats back with the same relish.

Ed responds by leaning his forehead against Oswald’s, and he’s close but not close enough, which is why Oswald closes the remaining distance between them and presses his mouth to Ed’s.

It’s a little bit awkward and more than a little bit thrilling, electricity running through his veins and stars on the backs of his eyelids, rising to downright heavenly when Ed kisses him back.

 _So **this** is why people do it, lay out their very being for another – just for the off chance that the feeling might be reciprocal_ , he thinks once they pull apart, breathless and giddy like children.

He can’t say it isn’t worth it.

 

 

**fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @ bctrogues


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